What will you do with your one precious, wild life? - Mary Oliver

I thought:
maybe death
isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us — as soft as feathers — that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow — that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light — in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones. — White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

Winter walks up and down the town swinging his censer, but no smoke or sweetness comes from it, only the sour, metallic frankness of salt and snow.

Invention hovers always a little above the rules.