The Absence of Wavelength

Even Without Us

When you can inhale
first fresh air without narrowing lungs,
frozen amid gales,
I squeeze the tender hand
warming my digits
in the thaw, streaming,
gleaming in the barely dim.

Nostrils filter freed soil returning
from the soiled, soft banks
fleeing like black icees drained,
descending in pointed,
paper cups -- just as
winter candles when wax wicks
droop, seep beneath the ground.

I long for seasonable color,
but the eternal light
of a once tender soul
ignites a spectrum of revision.
All seasons start and end,
even without us.


3.14.21


Envisioning glints of former memories in this brief season...inhaling what essence remains through whatever negative capability.