The sun shines in the snow, blinding, immaculate.
A vanishing point's the center of each hexagon.
A cardinal's ready whistle stings the spine -
her scream (of red!) skimming over my isolated
hut. And it's hard to speak of a wobbling boat
wheeling around on its buried anchor, indolent;
hard to describe the sameness of the same, what
reverberates in the mirror of itself, absolute
identity. Yet it's there, in the whiteness - cold
as iron, gleaming back at the furnace of the sun.
Out of abysmal history, shivering Everyman
draws temperate lessons from that frigid rod :
the natural law, invisible water, seeps
from its frozen matrix. A day of rest,
a day of rest, an equilibrium of gracefulness
...light promise loitering in reedy deeps.
another scribble in the Jubilee Diary: