This is winter where light flits at the tips of things.
Sometimes I flit back and glitter.
Too much spectacle conquers the I.
This is winter where I walk out underneath it all.
What could I take from it? Astonishment?
I wore an extra blanket.
This is winter where childhood lanterns skate
in the distance
where what we take is what we are given.
Some call it self-reliance. Ça va?
To understand our portion, our bright portion.
This is winter and this the winter portion
of self-reliance and last century thoughts in snow.