Canticle

Canticle

In time a timeless mist frosts the bloom of voice,
as aura it shines,
and bright snows lace the clearness,
referenced by shadow.

On tumbled snow tumble I,
with breath like the North Wind exhaling clouds
of tiny crystals,
each a new strain.

And white the sun on sun-framed hills
pours through the coverlet.
Blinding. Warming only the surface.
Too far away to bring any thaw.

With eyes closed,
using air so cold it must be pure,
cracked lips let loose a ragged sound:
The paradox of winter ice.

From silence
song is born.


	TOBIN JAMES MUELLER
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