He cannot bear the scent of
life, of green things growing,
of tiny, pale new leaves of grass.
So he comes at night, the longest night,
the darkest night.
He comes only when white coats the earth,
smothering all sensation,
softened, dispassionate.
It makes no difference, though.
She is the same. Now, all the world is
frozen, motionless
like the gleaming shapes of stones around him,
stars that shine only for him.
He knows how he must look,
a black blot on all the pale snow,
his harsh shadow the imprint of a wild animal;
but right now,
there is no color,
no scent of trees or grass,
holly or evergreen or sharp cedar smoke.
His world is crystalline,
a tableau of black and white,
and it is almost enough.
The only thing that pierces his tranquility
is the breath of voices on the still air,
bringing words of
roses with fragrant sweetness,
wisdom, splendor, life.
He is still and silent
as black iron,
standing before the marble stone that shines
white as a lily flower.