The woods and all within;

in a dream, I saw my father there.

We remembered our embrace.

I thanked him for the bookshelves.

His face lit up: no verse is antique,

and I think you’re a student as deft

as many among the dear friends

we have known. But don’t worry so

that a ray of light here is

an eternal chute. Then, as he left, this:

why ask, where are they now?

They walk on old terrain they miss.

What angle is a flight or fall?

In snow their woes are mute.