The Storm

Now through the white orchard my little dog
   romps, breaking the new snow
   with wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
   hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
   in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
   the pleasures of the body in this world.

Oh, I could not have said it better
   myself.