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[Eleanor Johnson]

High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père"Now it's my turn to sing!"As if your human shape were what the stormAnd up there I cannot tell if it is stillCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Scrawny wolves, and you,Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;And beyond, the same sound of beesShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperOr else, like us, sunk into some long gazeMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,And off the white smoke swimsShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperAnd I would likewill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcThe winter road from the St. Simeon farmTo pick up even the quickening of windXVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages

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