141

Cosmos
are the little hand
that used to sit
on my palm
carving a love song

140

the marmalade sun
rises
silencing
the hoarse tone
of winter birds

139

piece by piece
gathered
by the cuddling grasp
a broken glass
radiates an octagonal prism

138

with the desiccated colors
on the pallet
Cerelia's brush
can't portray
the harvest

137

reflecting
the tone of the season
the gaze
turns
deeper and thicker

136

the flow of conceptions
from the fountain of passion
swept the dusk away
bringing
a ray of light

135

the beat
light and erratic
began to play
in the shadow of
the hunter's moon

134

The future
holds no meaning
without the hands
to hold
at present

133

these hands
weathered
with untold lines
invisible to
the eyes of current