Three Canvases in White
On a base of December blizzard
January slides in.
A mix. Of candy sugar, ice, and stardust.
A sculpture in raised relief.
Although it’s hard to paint a story in Winter,
If one loves the delicate lacy bluish powder
Just as it is.
My tracks across vacant field
dusted with daily freezing fog.
Only brief is a gift of the sun here
All is white.
Street. Sky. Meadow. March.
All is quiet.
Hunched over oyster stew,
It’s easy to love the silence of
No barking dogs. No lawn mowers.
Outbound coal trains hushed in fog.
Endless soft swish of sugar underfoot.
Dog’s paws crusted. And painful.
My lungs and heart ache,
As frozen mix bites deep.
Most certainly I will pay later.
But for now. For an Iced Hour.
I will worship these three blank canvases of white.