The mirror, too full of reflection,
fogs in this cold, cabined air.
Blowing the night’s embers,
drawing a small fire with paper
-unable to boil water,
I am left to warm in the force of the day.
Carried by consciousness, which neither
waits nor cares, loving only itself.
Impenetrable as earth, the solid Earth,
swept by frozen air,
burning with small fires,
swinging in a void.