There is a decent amount of stillness

in snow, and also in the yellow of
daffodils. It would be easy to say they remind

me of you, but they don’t. The crown of each

burns. All around, people

are effortlessly people. Some elsewhere.

Poets are ghosts. It is not especially

romantic. Stillness and the urge to participate,

hoping the snow sits. Casting out lines, always

wonky, the agony! Sounds good does it.

Yet in the centre, amber. Suspended,

knowing our faces are lunatic gaps in some

bottomless armour. So far into absurd that

money is unfathomable, hearts birthing

bright from our sleeves like hernia. Still,

the need to be a part of it, to have existed.

To never forget that we are slipping away

all miracle. Vivid and extra, skin and light,

experiments in weather. To touch, to write it
right. Staying open in the only way we