With unequivocal geometry, the sun
rises golden, tempts today on earth’s rim
and, by chance, we also see a silver moon
withstand an early wash of light.
Poets, of course, know it could be two faces
or an asymmetrical dumb-bell, levers
on a pivotal now
or Cyclops’ eyeing out from rounded caves.
We walk along after February snow,
kick drifts forwards and backwards, roll flakes into
and chuck them at each other with intent
when, in mid air, two snowballs stop, hover;
pupils dilate and finally – finally - we know nothing.