Winter Sun
I felt the touch of winter sun and thought:
“Should any more be wished for in this moment?
Should any thought, except this one, distract
from warmth the clement heavens rain on me?”

When tending wounds congealed long ago,
or walking galleries of future pain,
we spit into creation’s awe-swelled eye,
who, being thus insulted, blinks away
his ochre tears
and leaves us in the cold.