She of the Winter Sun

The spirit of the Winter sun,
is sitting on my back door.
She’s singing in a language,
I thought only I could speak.
She told me things I never knew before:
things about me and you,
things about you,
things about you...
For a moment I thought I could peek into her mind,
seek out the little things we left behind,
but she smiled and stepped lightly from off my back door,
her feet landing nimbly on the terra cotta floor,
kissed me so gently,
like a memory of you,
like a memory of you...
I gave her a twig of dandelion,
a handful of crushed nutmeg,
and off she flew,
Back into the winter sky,
singing of you,
singing of you...

-o0o-