This starlight is silver;
The earthlight, an arch
of dying amber
above unadulterated snow laid out.

The lamp casts a dim light
On the fresh white page
Waiting for the words, the memories
To be written, to be remembered.

Snow shuffled
New snow covered
Page crumbled
Paper smoothed.

In the folds of lonely accumulated time
the memories still hang,

unable to be brushed away like cobwebs
only to be folded away once more.

But tonight, the moon has decided
to ink shadows on the snow –
blank pages fresh and clean
waiting to be scribbled in the night
with thin lines of obsidian.

A pen scribbles in the empty page
with skaterly glissandos on a paper
now saturated with the remaining flecks of gold
and traces of silver
of a dying sun and a waking moon.