A few days of melting now, a promise of spring.
A warm, sweet, horizontal beam of late-
day sunlight leans into a faded print.
Cézanne. Winter's end. Tall trees, standing
in a pale farmyard. Through the bare branches
just a glimpse, the light-blue wash of a distant
equilateral (Mont St.-Victoire). The summit
calm, peaceful, remote. Moist air, expectant.
But winter's not quite over, yet. Snow
lingers. Cézanne, obsessed with realization,
flickers the horsehair in his hand, intent.
Mine eyes have seen the glory... so
a U.S. Grant stares out toward Appomatox,
toward the high ridge of some brave finish line.
The end in sight (a longed-for contemplation).
And it will be peace. Shalom. Shantih. Shalom.
Where it all began, behind closed eyes (opening).
The unappeasable desire of distraught Hobo
for his evanescent companion ties an O-
knot through his heart (slowly unraveling) –
one curious circuitous circumnavigation,
home to home (homered past a triple play).
His whole life gathered toward a single day –
when snow fell, silently. A crystallization.
The secret heart of reality – longed-for,
unlooked-for – blessing hand upon a tortured brow.
His patient father, prodigal. Ignored til now.
Behind a curtain of these falling stars...
Love's comprehending silence (soft, cold, pure).
Incomprehensible. Melts into tears.
Where Hobo walks along the limestone river-
bank. And walks, and walks. Toward everywhere.