work in progress

And so, through this new spy’s glass
I see it,
Pale blue, translucent,
A life’s happiness.
Autumn leaves and ice cold then:
Led me to Your fire—You,
having passed spring’s buds
Remained just as fragrant,
Warm rays against chilled flesh,
Nourishing me;
the flame now smokes as coiled wire,
incense remains,
tires to a fade,
tries to expire.