The world runs slant, down
the ragged slopes of hills
left over from majestic Appalachians,
younger less muscular brothers
of the White Mountains marching in formation
to the southwest, away out of sight
toward the Greens and the Adirondacks.
Not to be outdone in color, though:
the breathy greens of new leaves appearing
as a mist; the fathomless deep greens
of fir and spruce, steadfast
throughout the harsh resentment of winter.
Over all, the new blue of a sky blazing
as heaven must, a blue so intense
it can be heard even through the streaked glass,
the rheumy eyes which are opened
so rarely that the world hurts them--
as the newborn's eyes must ache,
as the convert's eyes must.