Bernardo

VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Over the chilly dale.
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Gray the cloud-like oaks
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
In white, in paint too representative
That open before me? What I see