A silent vigil was on,
for sun, which was getting
ready, to pass on the baton,
to sleeping moon in a winter storm.

In frigid cold, I walk in
snow to cut the greens.
Needles poke my arms to taste
the blood of a kiss.

The ironic curl, moves
a sin. Won't you celebrate
the white death with me?
I ask this question to myself.

A kingfisher dives in a
desert stream, for a spiritual kill.