[photo, son David: St. Malo, Fr.] An arch where vines Outline illusion, Beyond which Stems curl, Soldered in pearls Where fog and Woodruff fuse, Compose a circuitry Of choice and fate-- I am always A pilgrim at this Garden gate.
Small lizard-skin Case containing Glasses snaps shut. She moves in the Wake of others Up little roads Clustered around A station, where Blue-eyed Rosemary Begins an end To winter in A new nation. "Ah! I'm cold," She says, and Spring unfolds.