Ice blue

Something about this place
stirs the dust. The silence
echoing in the wood.
Cold vibrating the bone after
the still of a windless night.

Snow flurries around the forge
where the bladesmith hones
an edge keen enough for the fray.
Like insight it will wound with ease.

Something about this place
allows the eye to see sunlight
on the morning water
where young swans beat their
wings, preparing for first flights.

Solitude pierced by you,
our silence broken by the question:
what can we now do about love?
The day arches her back.

Something about this place
compels your departure, leaving
the hallway empty, the sunlit steps.
A cushion on the floor bears
The very last sign of you.

No noise from the anvil now, the
walls banked with folds of snow.
Spring flowers bow in submission,
and behind the opaque sky, ice blue.