Generous December. On the plain, snow-tainted
someone stood, palette in hand, wan.
It snowed, it snowed on, onto what he painted.
He did not know, he painted on
that naked winter, her bones bared uneasy,
her lap’s vale, deeper than he desired to show,
and bosom peaks, steep, vertiginous dizzy.
His model gathered snow.
A circling rook, oh God, whence hither flurrying
and for what tribulation?
Generous December. Snow falling, scurrying,
palette of deprivation.
That dreadful helplessness to seize the rendering,
its endless canvas-fall
much like the snow, so white, and wondering,
why fall at all!
That dreadful helplessness to halt what is so fleeting!
Your hand has become feeble,
your tongue is tied and not up to repeating
the thawing, dribble:
Oh changes constant, meld of melts uncommon,
Oh changes constant, deliquescent snows,
where will my soul repose, within which woman
may snowdrifts close?
Generous December. On the plain, snow-tainted
someone stood, palette in hand, wan.
It snowed, it snowed on, onto what he painted.
He did not know, he painted on.
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