Who has stolen the puffs of smoke,
That earlier arose form my lungs?

For just a moment I saw them,
Then gone.
And now far above,
In a disloyal sky,
Glimpse their shape before they're hidden again.

Strewn around in a disorderly manner,
Your lack of pattern confuses,
I cannot decode you.
Organise yourselves into a system that may be understood.
Do so now, my lost little plumes,
Then I can read and re-claim you as my own.

The cooled breath of my winter morning weighs heavily upon the daytime's sky.
I am sorry that i breathed.
Next time will be different.

Watch the winter heights confusing themselves with my puffs.
As snow and cloud fuse,
Think of the Sun and await His great returning to the land of your birth.
And the happy days when the puffs are lit by His will,
Taking up new shapes,
Like the masters of dance that they are.

My winter does come to a close.