I saw the purple and white move and flow as you wrote once awaiting my coming to you,
There is a knife at my throat in longing for a feeling I think I see in those streams and lines.
Last light on a Winter’s night, now is vacant what had been such a sight.
Why do I wander here, old ice on the ground, hazard, and freezing thoughts of zero degrees,
Ghosts of Winter I say, post solstice when days elongate and light stays,
Damn the imparting, freeze it, depart, missing what I believed was in my hands I have made into an art.
Here we are again to worship at her icy altar like a servant to a cruel master,
Exposure means we cannot be put here all the rest of the season every night,
Silence of ‘her’ screams telling, evading those false dreams, leaving time to sort out that which is not what it seems.