Whenever snowflakes fall on my small porch

And my fireplace crackle in trembling cold

I sigh and bury my face into my cashmere scarf

Smelling of once familiar perfume
Every time winter clutches the summer-mourning world

You present me at Christmas

Snowflakes to sprinkle upon my roof

Fire to toast my bread upon

And the perfume that comes only in snow season
What is the magic of the winter

That hooks the petals out of my cloth?

What is the power of the snowflakes

Who freeze even the water in the dog’s bowl?

The ice ironically shatters in the season of ice

Why do my memories stream back to my brain?

Why do they choose to dive into my ocean?
The porch is straddled with snow next to its snow-bleached gate

Crystals of water slumber with odd branches of ice

The fire burns like so every Christmas and winter

Every ember a wish, a miracle not granted

Every burnt out log a remembrance of the owner

Of the scarf.

A charred wood log rolls out with a crackle

Cravings. Cravings. Cravings.

All I carved on the log

None of them akin to the shadow who disappeared
Leather winter boots with pink buttons

Withdrawn into itself away from the other shoes

In my cabinet.

It mourns a person of geranium and daisy

The avid reader the fireplace embraced

The tamer of snowflakes who would brush them

With soft, long fingers 

The shy boots shuffle away

Continuing to mourn

The owner of themselves.
I don’t think this song as a serenade

Through all the snow piles and

Burning bonfires

Leather boots drifting with familiar geranium scent

Is it for you?

For Nature?

For the fireplace who has always welcomed both of us?
The furnace crackles on, engulfing the newly tossed logs

I wonder

Is the force of death similar to that?

What if I cast myself into the fireplace?

Will I see the one again?

Like the snowflakes on my hot cup, will we melt away 

Into water and do good to humankind?

The logs continue to burn in the flame

And I warm myself

Looking out of the window and flicking away the curtains

I like to think you are the icy moon

Seemingly cold but always watching me

At night I saw your face in the lunar planet

All the silver contours and sharp features

I shouted to you

“Has woe betided you? My dear sister!”

You never answered. 

Your face and expression full of warm moonlight
I raced to the small dirt mound next to our house

And stared at your face

As you grimaced

The black faded and became ombré pink

You screamed as if demented

I said “Sister, my dear sister!”

I never heard a call so sorrowful.

“You are the hidden nightingale

In the bricks of our foundation

Spread my word to your mother!”
Dear sister, sing on in the moon

I hear your calls of moonbeams

And sacred, shy moonlight smiles

Do not bid me a teary farewell

Dear sister, do not accuse me 

Of being late to call to your lunar presence

Maybe it is the golden Ursa next to you

That fractures your power

It catches me in a net

Never let me go

It may be the bear protecting from death
But as I see your shallow grave in the sea

In the rusty sunken ship 

On a seabed of moonlight

I dip my head

Planting a carved log on your resting place

Your leather boots next to your sleeping blue eyes

And a melting snowflake on your nose.
And I see the moon still

But the Ursa is no longer appealing

I see death

It is a unpredictable universe in the world itself

No longer afraid

Even though it is fathomless

I run into your lunar embrace

And feel my wings sprout from my back. 

The Stars stopped me from leaving

But you, my sister, the Moon, you saved


From what is another lifetime of fear
All I can say

Praise to death

You, my sister

My mother

The protective stars



Leather boots

And everything in between.
Your silver complexion is lustrous 

As I rub my eyes

In awe

My leather boots getting muddy.

Have I dreamt too much?

Behind me in the sea, unknown to me,

A giant wave comes bubbling 

With the sound of death

I dive into it.

I am not afraid.