Points of Gold

The winter wind is blowing in, with memories of long-past, and bringing them again.
All the world is gray and wending towards a night time when the tales of ancestors - primordial in wintry lands of snow and ice - come back to haunt our dreams with ghostly lullabies.
The life of everyday is fading slowly, nearly, from memory, usurped by a winter dark and gray and all the lighted windows are mere points of life that call us to some other world - the one created by family and love.
The night wind howls at the even and to every corner the black is swept until the other world - that day world, that sun world, is no more and what is left is only the imagining bright of life within.
The real life is but a strange echo of a dream, and night has come to bring us only the world of what we have inside - the golden light of happiness dots here and there, the loneliness of knowing the darkness touches within, but is kept without withal.
This strange dichotomy of black and bright; the bright consumes us with its difference from the dark surrounding.
Wrapped in colors jeweling the night, I long to wander into the great depth of what is unknown and sing a song of lonely, lonely rest.
Golden spilling into black, and the other way around. A jeweled panoply of rich and darkened thoughts, as deep as velvety black upon the earth's grayed plain.

Stairway

The ticking of the clock
Around the sphere of earth
Is silent, yet one feels it
Slowly moving, here and there -(in the deep of water, in the air)

The hands of many people
Are pointing to the sky
And all the numbers flying
Are in different signs

Twelve steps up
And twelve steps down
A cloud is crowning the burning sun
As it arcs across the sky

Climbing all the steps
The sun burns down upon us
And the moon up in her path
Lights stairs that rise before us.