January breathes her troubled chill through the clouds
and brings them down to me in feathers,
in stars between bamboo,
while eggs hide to hold in their last hope of warmth.
I pine with them.
Blanketed in prayer
But today it's winter.
January sun sends warm prisms through my lens,
belated green and orange guardians
His voice is straight and it is calm,
letting me know the choice is gone,
We are walking away