There is something like death in it.
… and the gift of new birth wrapped in ribbons of a waking sun.
There is sadness.
There is redness.
When the heart grasps at empty air
Like a forlorn babe.
Finality was a face once like ice.
It will melt into grace.
It, too, sheds cold tears.
I cup my hands like a bowl for its water.
And wash my eyes with it.