For artists' representations of Nature he had little interest;

like peering into a mirror at trees and meadows; 

glassy imposters. they reflect nothing true.

Still, can you see the image in his eye--of trees, meadows,

mountains, the harvest moon silvering her hair

the night he confessed his love for her.

That holy night seems now a reflection in a muddy pond--

obscured by falling rain, wrinkled by the weight of time.

Once he thought of painting to recall the past,

but the past is cloudier than countless mirrors,

and no pastels or crayons or gouache can capture the joy

that night he learned that love is real.

In every mirror he sees himself-in-love, giddy,

young, impressionable, wishing to high heaven

that reflections were true, if only for a while,