View
How does a view become
more and more dear to us
and more clear,
which days of rain have washed
and wind have brushed and sun
brought more near
and made the parts a sum?
Each patch of cloud or air
and each tree’s
stance reflects another,
exchanging that unnamed
form for this,
this for that; whose faces,
their beauty veiled or bared,
moved or calm,
reveal how long regard
of a world not conscious
may make one.
John Gibbens
