Splayed hands in biting cold,
Gesture to the deepened night,
Half-finished tales are told,
Weaving through the banter light,
So soon the round devolved,
To spattered words at every sight,
And blinking you step out the fold,
To some lesser silence in warm company.

In the Land of the Living,
Where His mercy is close,
The trees take His breath,
The rocks and pools both,
From setting to rising,
His mercy is close.

Sleepy eyes...
Follow the brilliant white keys along the screen,
Hiding depths of groggy wakefulness,
'Maybe poems will come'
The eyes whisper to the screen,
An inaudible sizzle meets the gaze,
They sit in ponderance,
For the night is younger than it could be,
And tomorrow shall remain a little ahead of them,
As it always has...