Villages:
Tend to crowd at lower, snowless heights.
Houses:
Jumbled beads spilled from single strands,
Rolling towards the valleys.
Clouds:
Multi-natured as a woman.
Here, transparent, elusive smoke;
There, a seascape of cotton puffs,
With arms around an ice-clutched mountain;
Or twisting in an oval, rough-hewn bowl,
Big enough for God.
And all around,the brutish,
Stolid solids brood,
Oblivious to the armchair spectators
Floating in the silver bird,
Almost as high as a mind
Turned on the Appenines.