Poem – Late Winter Snows

Late Winter Snows

The painter’s brush set white

And wet

Upon this earthen canvas.

The artist

Steps back to soak in

The creation: still-life, stark,

Piercing.  Winter. As the artist imagines,

The creation echoes the creator, the creator echoes

The creation; each

Amends, soothes, awes

The other.  Dry leaf landscapes of past Novembers, as if rough-sketched

In crumbling charcoal and set afire give way to new wonders of deeper gray

And meadows and mounds, oaks and ashes draped in downy white, first flat, without sheen; layered;

And then made gloss with the brush of the sun.

February, as though the artist has lost

Pallet for this subject,

Hungry for the quench of newness – a fresco come full-term kicking at the womb,

A dream drempt over and over, now nagging at the Divine Soul.

The thaw and fog descend, engulf, and then rise, as if a turpentine rag.

Rain steals away the remnant of past conception. The canvass

Is mopped clean, returned to water-color stains of grays and deep brown, only to be

Covered anew with the thick oils of white, wet,

Late season snows as though these weeks and this ground

Had never known snow before.

–        Max Ramsey, February 25, 2011


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