Color is falling, not the fallen, snow.

It sifts into the senses through a crack.

The morning eye has warning, a clue -

It is possible all heaven will break

Open, but probably not. There is a law

About heaven, whatever color may pretend.

No, color is something simpler, not so far,

And not so difficult to understand.

The blue on new snow good for sleighing

Rutted oil in an old dirt road.

Or the wild plaid shirt-tails flying

On a lumber-wagon driven by Jim McLeod.