Any small thing
that outlives
its happiness

must learn
to keep
from freezing.

Slowly, the dying
flame quietly
tells its story...

"while there was
some warmth
left of morning,

she described
her dream-
the last one,

the lost one,
the one about
her absent lover".

Now, in the cold
trees, a vision,
a frozen bird-

stiff and white
and empty
as these words.