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Dark shapes in the dark garden, the gardenless stretch
Of old yard, sweetened now by the half-light,
As if by burning flowers. Overture. First gesture.
But not even that, the pause before the gesture,
The window frame composing the space so that
It seems as if time has stopped, as if this half-dark,
This winter grass, plated with frost, these unseen
Silent birds might stay forever. It seems as if
This might be what forever is, the presence of time
Overriding the body of time, the fullness of time
Not a moment but...