The poem I turned in for class. I still cannot get this right

Perception

He drove the fresh plowed road surely,

so surely that my distrustful body-

primed with

years of my mother’s frantic tailgating to stave off

my father’s jealous, controlling clasp of rage-

relaxed and turned off the alarms.

Anticipating destination,

sharp pitched cabin roof

with a song of hearth and home in fragrant wood smoke

curling from the chimney pipe.

We’d spoon, warm in winter snow silence.

Private and unsought.

In the lines of his stoic, Nebraska face I saw the hidden skills.

Snow skills for sure,

I’d watched him shovel crisp geometric divisions

Razor sharp.

I’d seen him plow, no wasted motion, clearing big, clean piles unobtrusively

My breaths made steamy circles on the window as I watched-

With my California snow- wondering eyes

“What are you looking at?” he glanced my way.

It was a snowfield,

fresh from horizon to horizon,

a mystery of pines set well back.

I said, “The sparkles in the snow”

 for there they danced,

miniscule rainbows

 scintillating like the happy, noiseless chuckling of God.

He drove another quarter mile

Then pulled the Sable to the roadside.

“I’ve never seen that before” he said.

I gawked in disbelief, but was quiet.

“Thank you for the ways you’ve let me see.”

I felt then, deep and blooming in my center

radiating out-

That whole worlds are layered

One over another

And sometimes we can watch the birth

Of a new perception.