Winter Scenes

Something of an ekphrastic poem, in that it muses upon the concept of art, this is something I scribbled on a notecard one winter day during my junior year. I had recently heard or read something about the connotations of the word "nature" as opposed to the word "creation" - one implies a creator, the other implies a somewhat random world.



I hear men describe

great paintings

as windows

into the world-

here, in my room,

my window

into the world

is a great painting.

Tiers of red brick

give unreal depth

over blankets

of sensuous snow;

the sky seems

like a Raphael;

indeed, it was painted

by his master.

That tree is far,

far too real

to be true-

hyper-realism I say.

Great art surely

transforms us;

this window has made

me blind to nature,

free to revel instead

in glorious creation