Winter begins with blue gentleness
dancing around soft circles of integrity;
tangential crystals invite mild control
as a matter of being in charge.

All that you are and all that you do
leap at the touch of falling snow.
Morning is merely one more name
for your white intentions.

Glowing through insidious times,
suspended like a heron
turning a curved, beady beak
towards a final surf,
the man dives for a glimpse of mercy
with harnessed night.

Calamities like holy shadows
toll in the witness’ eye.
Weight fills his recollections
with more than regret.

Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
There is no one to follow you.
The echo of circular water
bleeds into sand in a tumbler.

Daring day’s dark profundity
he slows down,
facing inevitability.
The day’s trying process collides
with his intention to express;
the dance subsides,
what must be said is lost.

The moment is caught
in the middle of a history
with the best of all intention.
The distance between what has been
and what will inevitably come
carries his name.

Webs within circles of distraction
often hold his attention
as day follows moon
on the way to forgetfulness.
Electric nights he sees a baleful light
in a huge watchful eye.

A dark smile cuts all,
burns earnest intentions,
the bit needed to light the hall;
a fuse dies.
Never looking back
he finds the wind irresistible.