I think you know that this is winter day.
This time last year woodsmoke blew us away.
Frost wrote the poem on tall panes of gray.
That was the morning of the yellow finch,
A dropp of sun upon a garden bench.
Light raised the bird's momentum, inch by inch.
You held your coffee cup up to the sky,
Promised as long as yellow birds could fly,
This anniversary would never die
I hold your words much prettier today.
Though where the bird went, who could ever say?
Memory locks all emptiness away.