So begins the ancestral laying-on-of-hands. White on green,
the first snowfall comes a sad, melting martyr
to disaffected, banknote-colored leaves I hope survive.
The mason’s terracotta bricks overlay grass
and won’t retain warmth, neither will the cherry tart
left on the counter for my friend who recently moved in.

As faces flurry, melt upon each other’s cheeks,
I feel a sense of relief. The thousand-piece puzzle
is nearly complete. No one is dead.
The singing whisper of a choir, or the mindful totality
of ancients voices, or something close to Hark, the Herald Angles Sing.
My anxious breath returns my lungs with frigid air, then warms that air.

Damp snow accumulates on the white cedars’ arms,
until they drop stress, then raise themselves again.

– Elias Diakolios