inside the winter light

Sunday morning in the city,
icy pavement, icy street,
bare trees white with winter's white
its silence overwhelms

you wrote a poem about paper and skin,
we play rock, paper, scissors
inside this fairy dust;

in orbs of water,
it is always snowing
it covers and hides us
like bubbles we collide

not long ago,
wild geese
left no impressions, no shadows
for the leopards in the snow,
who are we, always coming and
going?

Falling. I remember cherry blossoms falling.
In another life, we picked wild raspberries
by the lake. We danced like young light,
shimmering with leaves.