How valuable it is in these short days,
threading through empty maple branches,
the lacy-needled sugar pines.
Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story
of Death's brightness, her bitter cold.
We can make do with so little, just the hint
of warmth, the slanted light.
The way we stand there, soaking in it,
mittened fingers reaching.
And how carefully we gather what we can
to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Winter Sun is your first poem here.. a lovely penned lyric.. a very good beginning, here at PH, for sure :)