I had nearly forgotten the poem
you had sent to me, one
that I had tucked away
a moment much like this --
the low winter sun sifting through
the delicate maps of frost
upon the window glass,
blue folding imperceptibly into
gold and back again,
and each word offering itself
like the smallest of birds,
the kind my young daughter paints
with two quick brushstrokes,
each small movement threaded
to another, lifting the whole
of the sky with ease.
