Paper lilies hiss along the pane
and the hour’s Madonna
sits beyond the fountain.
A wing of water hides her knees
she bends and elevates a crease
and the sky shouts brokenhearted.
A door opens on the boom
of the hollow wind:
closes and the branches
bunch and strain noiselessly.
Risen she glides her shadow
and her heels ring like coins.
The cold’s long fingers break
when pressing on her face,
a white whisper moves the lilies.