Perhaps I'm into wondering,
of sequins in a day,
the ways of light refraction
and poinsettias by the bay.

The way the wind in chancing,
every scent and every chime,
can find the will to bluster
through a solitary pine.

Fumbling through nylon
and clean-as-prism snow,
 I find the words, in secret
and something I should know.

As snowflakes pool in binding
and cover every square,
I left a white remainder;
a sign I'll still be there.