foe-less cold
of January,
the sun
does its best setting
far away.
From somewhere
inside us, our own
spare thoughts
fly out like dry
corvid cries
to meet it—
but of course, it is
too far, too cold,
too late.
After all the things
its silent touch
has invited—
after all the gaze
of its eye
has allowed—
it does not console
or conceal
or reproach now;
it doesn't
have a thing
to say.
