Silversun

I think
Emily knew some things,

like how the winter light was different,
sometimes.

I think
of her whenever I feel the silversun,

brightcold,
instead of softwarm.

The harshness of
winter’s glare somehow both dull and sharp,

the unending grey
sky.

She knew
what it looked like;

I could have made a friend in her,
I imagine,

because
before I ever saw her words,

or
heard them,

I knew them in my own head,
I knew them in my own heart