The weeks

extend

 

like decades:

 

leaves fall

& sky shrinks

 

to blanket grey.

 

A last pink rose

uninhibited

 

holds her

lovely head,

 

as if to say,

 

‘Winter is forgotten.’

 

‘Winter’,

the word

 

sends icicle

 

down my spine,

as the sharp crack

 

of ice,

opens pond.

 

These are

sea days:

 

incubating

salty bath

 

of creation.

 

Fragile, naked

forms,

 

voiceless

 

until spring

gathers warmth

 

& we

become,

 

pure gold.