Ghostly shadows are consumed in little bites by winter's snow. Sparking alive in moonlight gleam, without so much as a firey wave. But moreso gentle with watery winds which blow.

No place to hide beneath root and stem. No aching hand without feelings felt, in the heart of it all where such steadiness flows.

Without single eyelash out of place, it remains in time and simple sight, the center of this most orbital glow.

And globe.