warmth
is gathered
by my door –
tho white
the morning lawn
love is seeking arms
and I respond

as witness to
an ancient truth
fingerprints of grace
lace is strung
from pines –
but not for long

before the sun
discovers us
remembers me again
a child at once
recalled
to love I am

silent
as the first to fall
effortless to mourn
swirling feathers
softly
melting
down

. . .