I passed a painter all alone
Walking in the night, her eyes filled
With rods measuring remembered
Skies and their uncertain hues
Against wide wavefronts of blue
Twisting particles and pieces torn
From dying stars and galaxies
Into figures like me and you.
I saw the painter shake her head
And step into a field where grass
Rose tall and wild with greying heads
The wind wavered slowly through.
I left the painter there alone
Sketching memories in snow.