To the World Bound in Snow

Poemata CVI

Underfoot, snow crushed / and drifting it flecked my face / I turned towards home.

To us the snow-touched world is magic --
 Repainted by a subtle hand;
  Illuminated, sketched so lightly
   That none who see can understand;
To watch the snowfall tells him nothing
 Why some grow light and some grow dark;
  The painter picks his palette quickly
   But gently, slowly makes his mark;
The underpainting changes also
 Because the strokes are adding light;
  And though no trunk or wall is painted
   In fact they lighten in our sight;
What holds the pigment some are guessing
 And some may say that there is none;
  But if there is no real color
   No color also has the sun;
This magic then which is so fleeting
 In time it fades as seasons go;
  Must be for spirits not yet blinded
   Repeating what we think we know;
As for its image, ever-lasting
 Inscribed upon the human heart
  The snow-touched world indeed is magic
    Reborn in every real art.