Night’s a brittle song. Silver, and thin,

which shatters into a billion fragments of quiet shadows.

Waking with a start to the blaring jazz

of a morning sun.

 

Morning's a tender verse. Vast, and brilliant,

which makes a golden star on every cracked window.

Sunflowers shining with dew,

counting the steps of the earth.

 

It was inbetween where his eyes shone like cold stars.

With the kind of hope that flies on silent wings

under a shining owl moon.

 

Over jazz music and billions of shattered fragments he says to me: 

 

Be the home that warms me.

When the wind assaults my doors,

every corner’s cold but yours.

When the snow puts earth to sleep,

let your bright shining soul, my heart keep.