SNOW took us away from the smoke valleys into white mountains, we saw velvet blue cows eating a vermillion grass and they gave us a pink milk.

sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,and the old things go, not one lasts.

A nickel apiece is what they sell for.Wishing children tag Pietro’s heels.He sells out and goes the streets alone.

In a wind-gaunt orchard where the limbs forked out and listened or never listened at all,In a passel of trees where the branches trapped the wind into whistling, ‘Who, who are you?’I slept with my head in an elbow on a summer afternoon and there I took a sleep lesson.There I went away saying: I…

And loves the white of her shoulders hidden under the dark feel of it all.The masonry of steel looks to the night for somebody it loves,He is a little dizzy and almost dances … waiting … dark …

Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast ironAre the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches;Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeveAnd a flimsy shirt open at the throat,I know him for a shovel man,A dago working for a dollar six bits a dayAnd a dark-eyed woman…

Of one who comes with an old keepsake.Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets,Scarf pins and shoe buckles, jeweled garters,Old-fashioned knives with inlaid handles,Watches of old gold and silver,Old coins worn with finger-marks.They tell stories.