I could mistake the trees for happiness,
that have not fallen yet; their soaring leaves
and branches dance as if my loneliness
is welcome here, as if my shame was breeze.
How soon will frost become my dearest friend?
Enveloping the tears I spilled in life
and hiding them; how well I should pretend
that powdered snow has been a loving wife.
My scars I shall anoint as sparkling rain,
and in the sun reflect what cannot cool,
to wash away the guilt, to quench my pain,
collecting with my dreams - in empty pools.
