winter on the docks

in the black
morning i am unable
to see. waiting
to dilate, a white
bird becomes ghostly,
floating on ocean’s
unseen skin.
seeing me,
the bird beats
itself into flight.
a mirror once
clung to a
thin footing of
wall. it is
no longer there.
its memory is
gray, its shadow
is a mottled brown.

my life is motionless
like the mountains.
their heads lost
in white.
their shoulders taken
from green into
black. i return
to cold colorless
waiting, and wait
for morning to turn
blue.