Blue streets are lost. br Snow like an avalanche of velvet birds, br Spins morning through a fragile, parchment song. br Which one of us dares hold it to the light? br br Such lonesome hands br That shaped a shadow home from winter smoke. br Poems burn low behind the window glass. br Frost paints a flower for emptiness to hold. br br Will you find me br Some day when streets bring back the dusk again? br You need not wait for January, Friend. br Snow is a mood. This winter is for you.