These are the rhythmic shadows unleashed in winter
The day’s restlessness of light
Betraying the quiescence of the woods

The trees wait, motionless, patient in the snow
to wake
to cross the threshold of sleep

The chanting of their leaves giving voice to the wind, again
In its ceaseless wanderings

And to speak of the sun
Falling into the night
The stars floating on the surface of the seas.

And the anointing of the sun
The return of its life.

The oblivion is ours to remediate
Our end in words and images, here obscure.

We are the phantoms here.
Late to arrive.
Soon to depart.

— January 18, 2026 —