The moon occupies the exact centre of my horizon
Gauzy bands of purples, pinks, blues (robin's egg, cerulean, deep dark gray purple blue), delicate pink and shots of gold layer the sky
Over the first greens and yellows that ever coloured a tree (or so it seems, every spring) budding on the trees of the cemetery below
Longfellow articulates flowers, night, sleep, angels
Leads me to rest and then shocks me with death
Ghostly figures of the soul
And the bright clarion call of last days
Or the bright springs of his today and mine
I read a poem, and then look at the sky
East, south, west
It's a cold spring this year
