The high part of the night
Is whistling
Shrill is the death of the light
Stubborn in its remorse

She was, in the marrow of her bones
The first day of spring, a full supermoon
A night young in its rising
A planet indecisive in its spinning

These are the powdered sugar thoughts in the mountains
Dusting the peaks with snow
Citrine slumber, beneath a suicidal sun
Crystal remembers, when the stars forget