Nearby wind chimes 
or far away bells,
I can’t tell. 

Here on the porch,
wind spraying snow 
from the mounds about,

Gray and cold 
but beautiful, 
a backdrop for vibrant
Peeks of color.

Soon they say 
we’ll be rid of sacred days 
and every day will be business 
as usual.

The churn of tires in deep snow,
The splatter, the putter
Of rain where you live,
I am lost in the downpour 
Of you, in the flurry of you,
In the drifts, and the banks, 
And the slopes of you;

I remember your room, 
tucked under the loft, 
candles and candies, and
Incense and lace.

Let your voice go,
And I will play
strong chords 
beneath you;

Here is space,
A ground upon which
You can figure.

A bite
Of the apple of 
the eye of the storm,

My heart
At the end-of-day whistle;

The nearby wind
And the far away bells…

cc: Chagall 2026