Trembling on the pale blue lip of winter,
very last pink azalea blossom,
tendering tribute longing for a bee
against south sinking the diminished sun

it's blessedly unaware of how slight,
how fragile it is, how least breeze troubles,
how each touch of the sun brings the end on,
how it is like me phantasmagorical

and so seizes hold of me entering
by the portal of my eye, holding sway
over my mind throughout the coming day,
where it will stay after it is long gone

and propagate through this trembling record
of my breath after I, too, have gone long