The sun is
fixed and we
cannot stand still long enough
to let it warm the winters. Instead
we bask in the weak reflection
of our cold companion. It illuminates
early morning demons. They scurry
along the fenceline, skim
freshly fallen snow, engulf low
black bushes but leave no footprints.
The air carries
no telltale odour.
Fresh and clean, some say. But then
the lost sun forces this creation,
this world of living things, shadows
with ill-intent or mythical creatures
fallen from a heaven of light.
All of this
can be explained.
If you focus on the window glass,
you will see a reflection
of the mad inventor.