Spring colors the ground with crocus-crayon.
The way a silent Cézanne anchors his canvas
with heavy apples, a phalanx of blue-green pine-
branches. Where nothing was, a piñon-canyon.
In some such way, the whole cosmos pivots
on a melted snowflake, stilled in memory.
Oscillates like a see-saw – children at play
between brush and color, things and thoughts...
Maximus too (long-bearded, thin-fading) held
that snowflake in his mind, like a North Star –
one honey-character, indelibly imprinted there.
A brooding dove-hen, sharing out its world
of warmth and sufferance... the seal
of Solomon, its wisdom-sign. Yellow-
gold, sewn into wheatfield. Glow
of sunset, sinking into earth. Doom-bell's
iron farewell. Blackstone's only candle.
Til he walks out the door of his lonely shack
and wanders (like Hobo) down out back... lifts
his eyes to the dark sky, with its ice-mantle
of myriad arctic points (all aflame in their places).
Magnanimous feeling wells up toward those signalling
night-pickets – guarding the watch on high, pacing
the sleepy ground with their airy pantomime –
as if the pivot of the universe were projected,
mapped onto an infinite field of blue sparks.
Pure mercurial frost-beams (parked
aloft, above the cemetery – resurrected).