I can feel you in the West;
your heat allows these blades of grass
to stand and reflect green.
Out of season, tiny trees push through
the mossy ground, where in your warmth
even ashes sometimes appear to bloom.
On a rock beside me sits a shadow
purified by Eastern rays
and flattened on a knoll.
It is the silhouette of an old sunset,
perched in ignorance, statuesque.
Under these branches,
fallen silver backed leaves remain
to be crunched or lifted by the endless
to and fro of horses and men.
Their padded landings are heard
by the roots underneath their winter bed,
but are already forgotten by the sun who,
as a stainless cold begins to bite my fingers,
cannot help but to burn.