when too many strangers 
gather...

I pattern myself
as a snowstorm

muffled
calm

cold crunchy
under-footing

tender iced
fingertips

a burst of warmth
soon to come, soon to rise

a tepid updraft
on which to ride

beneath where the bow breaks
is an ocean of cradles

she sings
rock-a-bye lullaby

softly at night 
in powdered fields

faraway moonlit hills
small gray-purple bumps

he and she that shan't want
shall still wait

there need not be lights
for there to be neon

cc: Chagall 2021