shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
This perfection, this absence.
That desire has ever built, have approached
So, startled, quivering,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
This perfection, this absence.
That desire has ever built, have approached
So, startled, quivering,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
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