The Poetry of Earth is Never Dead

© 2012 Loren Zemlicka
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Alone I stare into the frost’s white face.
It’s going nowhere, and I—from nowhere.
Everything ironed flat, pleated without a wrinkle:
Miraculous, the breathing plain.

Meanwhile the sun squints at this starched poverty—
The squint itself consoled, at ease . . .
The ten-fold forest almost the same . . .
And snow crunches in the eyes, innocent, like clean bread.

– Osip Mandelstam, “Alone I Stare Into the Frost’s White Face”

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