Snow lays white in the sun. Its hard glitter signals
biting cold in juxtaposition to the hopeful colored sky.
Under this blue dome lies an enigma—a house inured
to the surrounding brightness. A house out of phase.
It knows nothing of this cold spectacle. It is protected in a shroud
like an English graveyard on a darkening hillside—half-lost
in a gathering mist. Entombed there for some time, eventually,
you choose to raise your arms and dig upward and out of your
bereaving chamber. When morning finally comes, you cross
the funerary grounds. You leave the iron gates wide open for you
shall return here. But for now, the morning sun dispels the fog.