A foot fell between the evening hour and this migration between two years. A call from elsewhere (perhaps home if only one can go back?), from another year as I am driving, wheels skating on ice, through a Bruegelesque landscape that will perhaps become my own, given time, or given some of that fidelity, which I have failed to pluck from the apple tree under which I was kissed by Adrienne(s?).

Meanwhile, the heart's needle - does it register this cold, these oaks looming out of the earthy luminescence like frozen mastodons, or is it lost to itself, as it wanders like a fakir through these whiteouts, unable to navigate towards                                                               Radhika?