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 and then the draw

to press my head upon his breast and hear

his heart beat, warm together in his holy thaw.