With the words that I speak I conjure the joys of our youth— now past Immortal on the condition of our delayed mortality Emblazoned in the collective memory of our twin souls— / As my sight goes soft at the edges, tinged gold Reality makes way— we advance into the void: A cabin of logs, on a lilypad of golden light Floats in the sea of the Ancestors, their august trunks Shed snowdowned twigs for the Hearth— / Stones picked from the hillside, stacked high— / The fire is gentle, we warm our hands And the light of the Ancestors spreads, makes shadows On the walls, dispels the night’s cold darkness There is warmth, and us, and home