The boy's skin is white
white like the snow they say
used to fall on the hills
before the ash and smoke
turned it sickly gray
like the skin of the people
He once saw that snow
clothing a distant village
like a virginal wedding gown
stretching to the horizon
with frosted windows
veiled in intricate lace
It was a pristine canvas
of which there were too few
so he climbed the mountain
and with oil and torch
painted the village
with hues of fire and death
Now the snow has returned
and frozen the twin lakes
into sheets of blue crystal
that have never seen
the ash and smoke
much less the fire
He chooses his medium
and begins his careful work
etching crimson designs
with knife and razor
finishing with a shade
of darkest violent violet
Then his masterpiece is stolen
just before it is finished
but even incomplete
the gray people say
it displays the mark
of a true artist