Rush, ruffling wind.
Two paths curve t’ward an empty cradle.
Looking o’er toward the cranes…
Blow gentlesoft, pandemic breeze, ‘breast an unop’n’d tomb.
A ring around old cobble.
Ferry me upriver.
Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.
The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.