A longing—one of those poetry words
Like wishful—ice at the windows
And the window glass frosted
And the emptiness that rides us
All coming together as we draw
With a finger on a frozen pane.
Its the season for broken connections
Between memories
Startling again, everything
Turned round, mother
Long dead laughing
As she’s fallen while skiing.
And no one knows how it shall be…
The respite of the dead season…
Hope in nothing…
And the smiling that goes on inside twilight…
I look up as the branches sway…
Gulls eating from the pine cones in snow…
Planet of the Blind 