Each day brings me closer
to the coast of winter.
The rinsed whiteness of the sky
is like a mother soul after birth.
The wholeness of the bushes
turns into black needlepoint.
Flowers of frost melt in my hands.
There are shimmers and hazes.
Fog clouding the windows
of the air.
Candles burning down on tables.
Dancers coming in and out
of the dark.
Morning has the wings
of a gold bird
with a song the heart hears.
Music doesn’t hide in a piano
nor does autumn close its pages
without a new place to begin.
The room fills as it empties.
Life never leaves death without
a friend,
or someone, you can ask
for the next dance.