This poem was inspired by a series of photos taken by a friend. One of these photos is presented below.

Sun Rises

The crisp air drags a finger across the glassy surface, over hills and rising fields, rippling trees and sky with tangled textures and windblown hair, wisps of light that cover her eyes but not the addictive smile etched across my window. I strain to see in focus through the deep, round frost, corn silk glowing gold and twisting into every twig and finger of the winter ash and pine that stand guard along the rocky shore, (and I hear the faint voice of music, a soft treble

whispered across strings and mountains, an echo of a summer long since gone to sleep. And she lingers as a gentle spirit, back turned, looking ever forward) and the shore scattered with sentinels cold and muted grey; I see red brushed across her cheeks. Oh, how I wish I had kissed them just once more, that satin skin raised shy above her lips curled up in a reluctant smile and drawing a line in thick crystal up to her clear, glittering eyes. The winter chill breathes soft across the glassy surface, decorating the ice that spreads slow and gentle -- silver spider webs dusted with clean, paper doilies -- while the bleached skulls of ancient kings stand bright upon rivers, stones and tides. She stands upon cracked earth and rising fields

and lifts her chin, eyes closed, to breathe in the morning sun that soon will saunter through the jagged woods, mingling with the current of a new day. And a long anticipated smile spreads with a sigh across her lips -- moments later she catches fire and dances with the phoenix in the thin space between the world and the night and all of the dreaming -- while she hums in tune with the last dissipating refrain, (she must hear it, too), quiet and calm, and magically waking. It was, in a word, Freezing; and also in another word, Beautiful, that spirit hour before the sun rises, and when I flutter and drift, and wake in that moment made of moments, the now that crawls and walks, and flies on into forever, I take comfort and lift myself from my frosted sleep, over the fractured fingers of birch and pine, and I glimpse her in the glassy surface, and warm my hands upon her feathers all aflame, as she runs out to the lake, and watches the sun get up. And I rise.