A Different Kind Of Speaking

This cold and brittle town
crunches under the delicate
footsteps of the sun.
She walks around the morning
with a smile, trying her best
not to wake the neighbors.
She greets the wood siding
of homes, the backsides of
trees, the far sides of fallow
fields. There are places she
cannot reach this time
of year, yet still she peers
around the corner, filters
through each branch, streams
in windows and under doors,
as if to assure this young world
Still here, my love. Still here.