The Artist Paints Oblivion
The snowy field of what could have been
is the last landscape. It stretches to a row
of brush and trees, then up to the canvas
sky, awash with fog against a base of indigo.
At dawn, sunlight filters between the stand
and colors pink a patch of snow. Ice crystals
blaze like the fire of diamonds— the hand
that paints the silence paints as well the stars.
Tan and black branches are slashed by a palette
knife across the crust of snow. A dab of dry
red reflects among the weave, perhaps to offset
the cold, open space the artist has designed.
All this remains before me blank; my days,
my work, the long heartache an then the draw
to press my head upon his breast and hear
his heart beat, warm together in this holy thaw.