The heathered pink and blue of
this dying winter's day, reminds me
joy is tinged with sadness, 
while love and sorrow be
a singularity

How the trees' wood turns golden 
in the gloaming!

We of the canopy there
in the dying light, hereby...

Stripped branches like veins
reach to the indigo, 
as much above ground now
as rooted below

Stars be our blanket,
protect us from the wind
till dewy 'morrow

cc: Chagall 2022