Delicate,

What of the
darkest corners of
the poet's soul?

Like
a cold winter's
night.

The darkest
and the longest
hours.

Silence within silence.

Like an atlas of
untouched snow.

A wide spread
of delicate fracture,
contained
in a fine composition.

It must not be seen,
but
to be searched.

An effortless,
long
search.

That
irrational ease.

'The flowers
are blooming',

I heard them whisper.

Like bursting
into colours.

Into Life.

A gradual
change of the season.

Like my blinded soul,
I feel, I hear,
but I have not
seen.