spam poetry

To run, as in the time of the bee seeking
wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
The paths of childhood.
For any part of them we can make out
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Merely a mockery of spring
demonstrating their talent for comedy
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Is the moon to grow