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
love and eternity.