for BZ, and VKZ

In the quiet of a day
 that waits its dawn,
the rock faced mountains
dream of flying…
Doesn’t everything?

The smell of pine and snow,
a hint of cherry in smoke curling
from the chimney,
ice crystal air
nipping at the skin

through all the layers
of hand knit sweaters
(or feathers)
Every moonbeam
an invisible line;

every wisp of wind beckons.
Wrapped in the silence
        of snowflakes falling
I search for stars
and dream of flying.