My eye’s finger-tips can never quite
draw from the tarmac a face distinct,
but I know it is God perfected, there
in the oily rainbow’s slow pirouette.
I cannot look upon roses until their end.
I pluck each perfect petal, and from
my palm let the breeze take them, before
wilt and obscene fall arrive one day.
I hear still the irreverent crunch of boots,
marring deep virgin snow, and how a part
of every sound was claimed by the frozen
cloud that lay upon the land in white,
Stolen safe from time’s fraying of truth,
paper sealed by sudden flash brilliance,
beyond the reach of greying years, its
smiles mirrored as we look,
until we can mirror no more.