I travel through unfinished planes,Landmarks sketched in muted ink.Each corner bends to somewhere else—Direction chosen by a blink.

In quiet tones of ivory white, A canvas sings of gentle light. Its whispers hold the morning’s grace, A tender, calm, unhurried space.

An eyeless gaze surveys the room,Seeing by the pulse of air.It finds in blankness everything,And judges nothing there.

On a white horizon wide and deep, Skiers scatter, curves they sweep, Dots of color blend and play, Painting joy in snowy gray.