In the fading blushes of twilight I saw
Wrinkled hands clasping a rusted iron
Chisel as I listened to the whittling of
Oaken hours. I watched the
Pomegranate hue of the horizon fading
Into a pinkish glow, as winter’s wooden
Minutes fell into memories.
One less day of winter was stowed in
My expanding cache of dreams, which
Exist and don’t exist, reaching into the
Past, tinting the future. A wee sculptured
Wooden figure remains filled with the
Valid and the void, a trace of that which
Was... forgetting and remembering,
Both fading.