Cold sunshine writes our elegy in frost,
Author of light a million snowflakes lost,
All gone forever into swirling air,
A dance of death that is no longer there.
Pure poetry becomes a stanza said,
Classical white a message left unread,
While we stand longing for a winter past,
Hurt by a mood that was too fey to last.
West is a shadow wrapped around frail bones,
Your hand in mine for eloquence atones.
Touch is a brevity that needs no sound
To turn the weather of the world around.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.