a blank slate illuminates whitely

dejected expression in crystalline tears

delivery trucks have passed, brown boxes

sag in heaps, waiting to be cut apart

rare generosity and unexplained love

return to small tunnels in dormant seasons

coldness in ocean, sky, blizzard communicate

throw refuse at those locked in survival

underneath time's umbrella lovers

die side by side, alone yet together

the poet who brilliantly stirred hearts

(particularly mine in a fortnight full of loss)

listed among suspects of Victorian mayhem

after retreating behind gracious clouds

unnatural sun rises with a vengeance

something weak but beautifully fragile

painstakingly created of handspun glass

lies irrevocably smashed on granite floors

its shatter usurping comfort's vacated throne

books with old words and Roman numerals

yet small enough to fit in one's hands

smiled, took a bow and disappeared one day

the gift from nowhere has been returned

and no eyes are sharp enough to reclaim it

when once was listed a stirring goal

an apt conclusion to secret inner joys

surrounded by warm woodland colors

exists only a hall of smoke and mirrors

devoid of color, satisfaction, sensation

purpose flying under the radar forever

as always our hearts rend like paper