A recollection of images serenade their emotions,
Crafted by a crystaline pebble; bathed by the cold winter light
Whilst I ponder the existence of sensibility and rationality.
All I could focus on
Was the tranquility of how a dying light ,
Conformed to the winter solictice,
Can create the essence of luminosity
Kissing the gentle drops of condensation,
Like a rose brushing the tips of a child's fingers.