I am at one, here in the present
Stoking up the fire with logs
From under cover out in the frost
I was the lucky one, then as now
Finding a shoulder to rest my arm on
Whispering sweet nothings; nothing no more
In search of symmetry
I recognise that the wood storage boxes
Need their own force of realignment
And where did that fine light go
Did it sink back into the heavens
So I suppose; suppose nothing no more
