In iceland, the wind carried the drift of morning coffee from your window on pingholstraetti street; the blue of the building melting into the winter sky. The walk up the hill to your door
In conversations, your words stand still absorbing syllables at dinner under chandeliers that shed prisms of candlelight upon factory woven threads of linen while waiters serve
In the early morning hours, words fall like snow against all of the impossibilities,. Church bells ring. Its 2 a.m. Odd how the hours find the memories of frost and keats.
Sun-morning, Sun-mourning. The sky still breathes when cooling wind becomes a composition. Time holds still whilst violins echo in the beginning of a summers day.