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
