Classic Poem

You will not travel
the ultimate distance
nor witness the harvest.
Snow barricades your door,
and your silent fence confines
no more than poetry.

There are seasons in your body's cells—
seasons and gleaming shores.

Soon they will vanish
as will the sign that followed you
from towers to mountains
where you explored temples in ruins
and noon's high wound.

You will spend tonight here.
The stars will keep their distance.
You will not witness the harvest.
Snow barricades your door,
and your silent fence confines
no more than poetry.

It is enough to know
that there remains an ultimate distance
like a thread from here