It is winter, I am alone on the path.
This hard Earth meets each stride with the sting of cold rejection,
my soles are thin with age.
The Sun is indifferent, vague, without warmth,
but there is a sharp halo around an early Moon,
a bright beacon blessing the day into night.

Hair the color of the moon’s ashes,
her hands were orchids,
delicate as white clover
pressed into a locket.

Found Note
If I sit here quietly enough, for long enough,
you may say something like,
“When I was a kid back on the magic Western plains…”.
But now, here in the shadowless shank of the day,
things need to happen much quicker than you are used to,
you and your contented smile lit up by all that nervous energy.