The rhime covers morning ground like paint
poured thick through evening and dried

By moonlight, heavy on the trees, on branches
forming the arcs of a frozen fountain

That will, come afternoon, break from the ground 
sending the blanket that bound them 

Into a sky that feels as free
but embraces a sun that betrays

The ice, aware the moment isn’t static, holding
the glint of gold in its waning promise;

To venture beyond this window, would
alter the instant by the weight of my feet

Disturb this museum of rain, refusing to retain
the trailing whisper of wind.


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