by P. R. Lowe, copyright July 4, 2016 (written March 9, 1989)

The sun grinned

and slid across the ice

playing games

and making rhymes with time

too soon for us to see

busy in our slumber

too encumbered in the dream

to see the scheme of things

that are

light twinkles from a frozen tree

and we shut our eyes

and pray for things to be