The Grandest February

Late winter vagaries of gray – assonant gradations
through the octaves, black to white – the dove-soft
warm enchanting way you, through them, with them,

guess, today, what may be form or empty space –
molded and eroded by the welcome
and involuntary floods of your imaginings –

a drenching sense of curves and shadows
which appear to scribe and sculpt
a harmony, more like the swells

of an illumination from a sourceless light
than anything that could be tended by
vocabulary: yet you write. You almost recollect

the soft eruption of a consciousness
that comes – just as your barber (tenderly
administering your new buzz cut) –

proud new father! – said, today, was coming
to his infant son – just three months old:
tracking sights and sounds – following Existence

with his eyes – everything a bright bewildering surprise.
Not to notice things is an unpardonable sin.
This is the grandest February there has ever been.

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