A particular light in February,
singular in the sheen of ice upon the hill,
the ground cover grain or rayless yellow,
was sent to me in a photograph by someone thinking of me then,
a man walking in hills, I occurred to him, I
occurred. To make something of me, a photograph,
a stopping by me, a sending, it was an I
who filled another’s mind. Our eyes let what is good
pass in and what is unnecessary sieve through—
