Light on canvas. light on the snow that slants toward the past. the landscape
sheared, the past like gaps in the landscape.
Hoofprints tack the newly fallen snow. the doe and fawn quilting ruts,
sniffing at the pockets. frozen grass under the landscape.
A gallery of Arctic sky, clear and cold and large enough to hold the blue that mulls
over fields. one black, billowed landscape.
The paint’s not freezing. he can make out the details. the whole thing’s beautiful,
brushed with the solace of landscape.
My feet-sled in the plow, my mittens wet with stars … and yes, the swerve, yes,
the ranting, the ice and spangled landscape.