The little things
    that I had
        but could not see,

Grew listlessly
    in the grit of each
        day. One of them

Puffed with reckless
    hope, sweating with the

Scent of magnolias,
    as we swirled the
        constellations with

Laughter, knew freedom
    had a primitive
        thrust in America,

Reeking of thick,
    earthy April rain.

"Brown, inscrutable
    mystery," you said,
        "I love you for it."

Like the dew
    that dries but
        leaves moist the leaves,

It yielded to
    the heat of the sun,
        On a cringing

White day in
    Chicago, drowning the
        scrape of Shovel and Snow,

Shovel and Snow,
    Shovel and Snow.