• medium:
  • Poem

“Now through the white orchard my little dog
romps, breaking the new snow
with wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
the pleasures of the body in this world.

Oh, I could not have said it better myself.”

“The Storm,” in Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2000), 90.
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