As crows calculated dark strokes of pointillistic clouds,
Another morning came.
It was a moment –
Bonnard strokes of pallid trees
And ‘Les Nabis’ blurs of still snow.
Perhaps it was a hiss of hot water for tea,
Or steamed-over windows of the vertigo day –
Absent a sun toppled by some worn blankets of winter light.
Perhaps it was the distant fields,
With ice of fallen leaves reflected a final corundum of sapphire hills,
But for a moment I thought you were still here.