To Basho

It is not the end of the day.
But it is almost.
Snow is matte.
Its white lilac doesn't spark
but quietly glows.

The trees radiate cold.
Fallen leaves
suspended in frozen shoals
form illusion of flying maps,
mosaic display
of ancient nations and worlds.

The sun is long gone,
but the sky
still keeps the last beams
fast to the chest.

I am reading aloud the lines
on my palms.
How long do I live, how far shall I go
following traces of birds?

Thousands of miles
through the heart
gone in one moment,
I am back
on a snowy
trail home.