I stroll the tarnished street
in fluid purple-gray winter,
not frozen white on white.

My coat is open
like a early summer sweater.
I’m searching.

There is always something
opening the day, bringing
you to a halt, causing

you to gasp and sigh.
Oh!  At the garden’s edge
sunflowers stand in winter,

frail, yet proud and undeterred.
They are taller then me,
charcoal lined, light and strong


not crumbling with a touch,
melancholy silhouettes, seeming
shadows of old soldiers and dancers.

They are pearl-gray statues
garden-made, guarding
the ground till spring.