A Poem in Memory of Stephan

I seek, above all, in the wandering
With sun’s warmth wasted on a stone,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
I’ve drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Winds blow sharp, what then?
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
And Mère Chose’s square of world, even as they
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Although December’s frost killed the winter crop,
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
This perfection, this absence.
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.