The moon is a bowl full of baby’s breath,
The tiniest sprays of pale white.
It sits on a shelf of the winter-bare trees
While shedding the barest of light.
The clouds move in, misty and cold, a haze,
They lead in the King of the North –
They hearken the winter, the ice and the snow
And call for warm coats to come forth.
The chill in the air is a spur to sight –
My mind is now crystallized, sharp.
The flowers are blooming across the night sky,
The darkness brought forth its faint harp.
I melt these distinctions that we insist
Upon, and the sky and the cold
Engrave on the mind all the changes I see –
The flowers and bowls that unfold.