veridiction:s

That truth hurts, is that why
bright days are cold,
when trees are silent,
more than shush of snow,
and wind is frozen flat
on the glimmering track
which now gives smoother sway
on the shining way, shivering down
to the fireplace of that home
where all that warmth’s been born
the seat and head of hearts,
where memories, too, are bright,
now that the biting cold
has molten into glow?