Angelic stillness of snow.
My silk imaginations
I spin in ode to the Song,
the soft flakes falling, white,
out of the ashen Sky.
And what is a lonesome Star
masquerading as the Sun?
I ordain myself of Truth
as a mirror or a cog.
In this season of rebirth,
I am not yet born.
Time comes slow to the heart,
and we fend off destruction
with pikes and our teeth wide open to the World.
09/07/2016
Richmond