(detail from a painting by G. Richter)
Winter solstice—/
the light of color black
our recurrence.
Turning tides—/
placing polished pebbles/
back under water.
Winter holds—/
I force the last hot drops/
from this teabag.
Of the tall tree/
growing from my worst writings/
—talk to me.
Summer solstice—/
long forgotten snowflakes/
melt in my palm.
My gravestone—/
flocks of migrating butterflies/
cover the by-dates.
