There’s silent frost on the windbell,
never far from time,
days passing as leaves falling
softly each on each
until they disappear into years
as when sunlight touches frost.

All the same, the days become,
as when moss covers oak 
until moss becomes oak-shaped,
formal—or until oak 
becomes moss-shaped, furred.
I am in the shape of my days.

Today a blue-black bee will mumble 
in winter wood sorrel,
because winter exists only in service
of sorrel in service of bees,
as this frost fading from the windbell
tells this day’s about to begin.