Every year from death,
rising like the phonex,
forsythias flame.

Warm breezes blowing
tossing around the night's stars
while they dream of spring.

Orange sunset burns
and soon I will be alone
with night, my old friend.

Branches sway wildly-
trying to free themselves, but
they're slaves to the wind.

I will miss winter's
bare, open solitude, and
the nearness of stars.

Cloudy winter night-
fingers dragged across the sky
letting in the cold.

Still, quiet snow dust
adds a certain solomness
to Sunday Morning.