Looking westward through the porch screen,
White light from the full moon shivers
On snow crust, on glaze over fields.
The silvered-seconds, the whited-minutes,
The wind-chimes euphony, the wavy-warped drifts,
The attempt to capture potential in the rising moon
Is, I know, the beginning of composition....
Maybe it is like the act of tipping the head back,
Eyes rising, tracing the pale-pearl flush overhead,
Untouched, skeletal, almost fibrous in its network
Across the sky of dark-blue drape, an eternal law
That promises what with grace we must become:
Marginal angels, immortal transience, fresh tracing
A lost beginning grafted to God’s sweetest words.
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