reykjavik grey

Rain slides down in silver tears against a window
kissing the prisms that bend and refract each note
played
by clouds that hover against the cloth of the sky.
Writing,
waiting,
hoping for sounds that echo from the wind-swept torn lie,
memories of winter's composition in reykjavik are played
and traced in patterns against a smile.
Footfalls still are heard as time bends the physics of love.
The sky,
so grey with clouds
waits to return to happiness and the morning newspaper
you read at 7 a.m. in a warmly-lit cafe.
Coffee cups are exchanged
and cubes of words are stirred about with glances and silences filled with opaque words.
Time sews and trims the lace curtains that turn blue as twilight falls;
the blue of so many skies in van gogh's canvases.
Reykjavik
and the walk up the hill past the bakari filled with the smell of bread and laughter
still stirs the snowflakes that fall against my face with joy.
The rain
still slides in stars against the memories of your eyes as they gaze from a window into a winter sky.