Wintersun
entered the upstairs library,

In shifts,
heads bowed.

The flickers of remembrance
softly stroked her hair,

Until the dousing of
the final candle

Summoned nightfall
to dance at her funeral party.

On a dead of winter day
our footsteps in the snow
melt too quickly
for anyone to follow

In drops of steady rain
we picnic beside the lake
and watch fireworks
fizzle out with summer

Riding the crest of fall
but stalked by spring
and so, in the throes
of such invisible connections
we're preserved

And sitting on a shelf
awaiting our turn
to be pried open
and spread like jam
for someone to consume...

Riverfront path, lined with trees
The Temple, fresh flowers and incense
Peculiar the fragrance
Sound of Incantations and ringing bells
From a different time
Distant, yet so closely familiar
The memory of this place