Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation’s tears in shoulder blades.
BORIS PASTERNAK
It snowed and snowed, the whole world over, Snow swept the world from end to end. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
