the same snow keeps falling
the same blaze the same
way of dancing on the same slant
now, and from here on
the snow falling into Lake Ontario
looks like the snow of the Abukuma River
feeling the snow and I 
gazing the same
it’s a curious sensation
grasping, rocked by time,
penetrated by life’s passage,
the ego’s possibility
is identical
contracting by degrees
the foreign snow, my country’s snow
the day before yesterday, half an hour ago
both look the same 
snow is aging
fresh
death too has the possibility of aging
now here the falling snow
the aging sameness
vaguely shaking
drops out of the expanse
of the vagueness it lived in
becoming a strange transparent body
the impossibility 
of living becomes the solid air,
envelops the same snow,
every second encroaches on
the same snow’s
sameness diffuses,
becoming mere folds of time
whooper 
swans migrating
become shadows and spread,
become light and congeal
                      
a graceful young woman Bach
a gem of time Prunella
repeating the simple songs
and wings circling
waves intricacies,
twists the silent body into a spiral
the fugue Gulda plays
The Well-Tempered Clavier
ears cannot touch
It sounds like the keel of sounds
one simple theme
two voice parts only
the song and the echo
without pulling anyone’s shadow
snows too are in dialogue
the utterances become snow
even the unscented flower
has a scent of silence
chilly spring
many underflows
wake from a dream
from nowhere
to anywhere
snow stretto melody
comes another voice of snow
responds to it, rewriting
the theme at the next
coming writing in 
a migrating song of starlings
a coming weaving up a coming
tearing the next coming
just like the fingers of a dancer
and the Bodhisattva Maitreya
dialogue wafting dancing fluttering
slowly at first
almost following a theory
transforms, however, soon
loses rhythms and beats
becomes visible
only at the end of the chaos
gradually the sounds
themselves disappear