Maybe it was the midnight shadows on pure sheets

or the snow etched by Picasso’s hand.

Or it could have been the sprig of pine needles,

ends all swirly script.

Or was it those cattails, fuzzy and tall and proud?

Or the geese with ice skates on their webbed

feet, bobbing and reaching and

cutting mystic patterns through ice?

Or it’s quite possible it was that peony splash of

sun that broke over the clouds and through that hill and

trees and across the

snow to where I stood

That left my mouth agape and my center

bored out by

heat and

love and eternity.

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