Outside the rainy day sits
with its hat on the horizon,
brooding over the northern landscape,
spruce trees swaying in the wind.
The ruthless sweep of the Queen
captures the battleground, leaving
me awash in the flood of my tears.
A small distilled ocean releases
the feathery web of inner emotions.
Above my head the stars sparkle
in a radiance invisible to my daytime eye.
We seek the language primeval.
To dance under celestial movement
of stories told again and again—shaping
and shaped—at times long forgotten.
Drops form patterns: on the windowpane,
my dotted reflection.