through a lens polished by a winter's sun
one finds an imprint of death traced upon skin grown accustomed to solitude
lacquered by sixty years of summer cherries
and hope
Oh what wonders lie just beyond this day
tucked into time & stars & the smell of blue
what remarkable brilliance rests alongside the cut
so sharp the angle of winter light
deceivingly soft the drifts of snow
weary the day
dark will be the night
following the brightness of this winter sun
