Five Landscapes

One

Green moves through the tops of trees and grows

lighter greens as it recedes, each of which includes a grey, and among the

greys, or beyond them, waning finely into white, there is one white spot,

absolute; it could be an egret or perhaps a crane at the edge of the water

where it meets a strip of sand.

Two

There is a single, almost dazzling white spot of a white house out loud

against the fields, and the forest in lines

receding, rises,

and then planes. Color,

in pieces or entire; its presence

veneers over want; in all its moving parts, it could be something else

half-hidden by trees. Conservatory, gloriette, gazebo, or bandshell,

a door ajar on the top floor.

Three

The trees are half air. They fissure the sky; you could count the leaves, pare

time

defined as that which,

no matter how barely, exceeds

what the eye could grasp in a glance;

intricate woods opening out before a body of water edged

with a swatch of meadow where someone has hung a bright white sheet

out in the sun to dry.

Four

A white bird in a green forest is a danger to itself. Stands out. Shines. Builds

up inside. Like it’s dangerous to cry while driving or to talk to strangers or to

stare at the sun and a thousand other things

we’ve always heard

people who wear white see better at night, though they gradually lose this

trait as they age.

Five

The air across the valley is slightly hazy though thinning though patches

remain between the groves of trees that edge a clearing in which stands a

single house. A child in a white t-shirt has just walked out of the house and

is turning to walk down to the lake.

Source: Goest (Alice James Books, 2004)