THE PAINTING

When I was sleeping in the sun

A window seeped into my eyes:

Bright green, soft green, then overrun

With orange. There was no gift, no prize

Greater than seeing it, no thought

Of anything behind that square.

Nothing was missing, nothing sought –

Nothing to do but sleep and stare.

What will He give of light, of bliss,

Who has already given this?

— This poem appears in the July 21, 2014, issue of National Review.