Supple droplets coalesce
in morning mist, whose cool caress
embraces all in loneliness,
sinking into shallow ground.
Follows then a breath of air,
whose northern accent chills the fair
unfinished droplets, held with care
there upon my glass found.
Shining into crystal likeness,
bright and white and round –
they harden without sound.
Beaded strings of peasant pearls
twined about in crescent curls,
crawling up my window, whorls
unbroken in a line.
There beset with misting sweat
they bind together, tight and yet
their seamless sheen and coverlet
grows gently as a vine.
Silently, with silver strength,
they reflect the moonshine –
until the night’s resign.
Morning brings a glassy sight
a world engulfed in frost-fire light
and painted crystalline and white
in heavenly decor.
The dusted streets stand glistening
while festive boughs are listening
to birdsong southbound christening
the mountain to the shore.
The fragrance of festivity
wafts in and out my door –
til spring returns once more.