Breath mist hangs—

and whisps away.

Frost grass crunches

under feet.

The trees point up,

their ever-arrow tops

aiming the sky,

a tent–stretched out–

of velvet blackness chill;

canvas for the spark, the dot

the splattered brightness

lavished…

a trail of shine-stream majesty

flung—across the void.

Worlds, and lights and sparks of sights,

a thousand constellations blaze

now bold, now beautiful,

now deep and philosophical.

A thousand meanings

etched

across the midnight sky,

display a glory song

to us

as our awed breath

hangs…

in the night air.