Past Inclemency & Present Warmth

It was
 
time that was
 
the tenderness—eden, as it is
 
       in need of
 
and tolerating no history—thus no tracks
 
of conventionalism in our shared patched boot
 
and oversoul pasts—just new snow, crossed through
 
like uncommon winter birds do—making paths invisible
 
but to few
 
—
 
But too few
 
continue—I've started to
 
think differently of nests
 
needs and webs. It's inevitable
 
I guess—& yet resplendent
 
isn't it? Always
 
a shocking testament
 
to what? Home? I don't know
 
how paradise found its parade
 
but I love it—patterns in steam
 
spinning off the Tivoli 
 
brewing tower yesterday—eye beams 
 
       into steel
 
                      greylit grey
 
    glisten      glistening