at first, it is heavy winter
and then it is lightly not winter–
lasting a tiny moment, allowing the crocuses and the snowdrops
to sing their siren songs of spring,
knowing all the while—
it will be winter through the window in March again
everything ends—but even in the end, there can be beauty
yes, there were cracks in the foundation
sometimes,
thoughts seem brittle
she writes poems with her eyes closed
in the darkness of the night,
but the words escape her memory
with the early-morning light
whispered snowflakes in the blue hour of dawn,
dreams of a swirling turquoise sea,
sparkling quartz crystals and
gleaming sapphires in midnight skies
a bare beauty—
solitary,
exposed,
implied,
intuited
a stillness
a quiet
a smile
and
a nod
there you were, in my dream last night,
and i recognized you,
and you recognized me–
when the night faded into day
and the light lifted us into consciousness–
I was still there,
but you were not
when the sky looks like blue satin
and the leaves rustle in the wind–
all is well
spanishwoods 