walking, early morning.

Sleepily lingering,
piles of soft snow—
I'd thought them all melted
until I walked further,
where trees were whiteblanketed
up to my ankles

(though not anymore to my knees).
In my heart the ice lay wet,
bright in the sun.
I walked deeper in
through the quiet and birds.

Cold is blamed for death,
for our eternal springtime buried, stained
by waves of blacknight soil.
Silent stars bear songs
of distant months a world away.

Still, that Winter showed her face to me,
much sweeter than I’d heard;
daylight blushed with joy
of dripping, lightened branches,
softly brushed by the quiet and birds.