The February sun is drooping to the horizon like a heavy rind,
Radiating like a bubbling pot of pumpkin stew,
The golden flicker between the black silhouette of trees
It radiates at an angle so that the snow becomes a blue more like water
More alive.
The sun looks so close and potent, not in the hazy distance, but near and reachable
If I could pluck it up between my fingers, it would drip like flaming honey on my tongue.
