High above me, sings alone the grey skies,
Quietly they breathe,
Calmly they stay and stare,
All up from there.
A vine sits on the bamboo fence,
Yellowing over time,
All on its own.
Nearby, yesterday’s frosts blighted the citrus tree,
Of bare bowers and few flowers,
Bears no single juicy fruit.
Turn around and I look at myself,
Pick some heat softly,
From the freezing hands.
Slowly yet thoughts do thaw,
Sparkle like glacial water,
And flow through the contours of our mind.