This cold landscape bellows,
Blowing endlessly
With a high pitched wallow
And I am not a voice in it.
No animated gust of white dust,
No longing wave of seed heads bobbing,
No tall tree, naked and exposed
Arms wide open
Awaiting for the sun.
This cold landscape bellows,
And I sit in isolation
Completely enveloped
By a drawn sensation.
Dampness smouldering the fire
As snow melts to ice I sit upon,
And the red tinge of frozen willows
Keeps this glowing fire
I have not set.
I am a glowing ember
A garden of love
Transposed into light
Fixating on your mind
And gently reminding you
How the sun rises every day
And each Spring
How the blossoms erupt
And the bees return
To bring you honey.
Smooth charcoal edges coated a tingling memory
That laid beside a warm body glowing.
It took foreign dust on antique chairs
And unraveled a long robe onto a cement floor
With cold toes and blue lips.
And at once, the abrupt end of this ceremony,
Captured by a small jagged and a little dot,
Returned to the inanimate wall
Struggling to stay awake.
A half moon arcs
Swaying deeply in the dark lit sky
Perhaps it realizes
How high it seems to fly
Never alone
Always sharing those moments of hanging
With all the souls
Shivering in the shade glowing