Walking the Dog in the Snow

It’s as if a book written in an ancient language

suddenly reveals part of itself to me; as if,

suddenly I understand all the verbs,

or all the prepositions. 

It’s as if, what before, I had only understood

in the illustrations of fire hydrants, trees and lampposts,

could now be seen  all over the white page.

And I am led by the ancient bearded sage,

who suddenly is infinitely wiser and more intelligent

than I had ever imagined he could be.

He leads me through the subtle character turns

and plot twists of his daily epic.

And what is even more amazing

is to see him write over the work of his predecessors,

not so much to correct their clumsy tropes,

as to add his interpretation of the scene, to mix

his vision to the countless visions of those

who stopped at this spot before him.

It’s dark,

We’re alone and off the beaten track,

but I know, that, try as I may,

my imitation of this sophisticated art

will not rate so much as a sniff,

even, or especially, when I try

to form the letters of my name in the snow.