The safe houses of winter reappear
In old snow, looking like weevil-tracked wood,
Once the snowpack dissolves to near bottom.
Always and everywhere it remains true:
The visible manifests a lost world,
Once invisible and unknown and real.
To discover anything is to lose
Innocence, mystery, etc.
Just to wake up is to watch sleep fleeing,
Which is to say that being is losing
And the only recovery is sleep,
The blanket of nothing when all is real.