Monday, March 8, 2010
Your breath precedes you on a winter’s day,
An insubstantial cloud, as if to say,
All solid things are blown to vapor soon.
Look up! The scimitar of the moon
Is but a remnant of the round it was,
Is but a ringlet of the ring to be,
As riding forth, the breath that marked your birth
Will have its heir, before it comes to death.
From: "A Winter Come" by Howard Moss