The world is held by thread and bone,Where spindly timber stands alone.
A forest made of ink-thin lines, Of ochre moss and ghost-white pines.
The mountain breathes a silver haze, To blur the edge of winter days.
While on the lake, the glass-still deep, The stilt-bound woods are lost in sleep.
No heavy boughs or shadows dark, Just light that dances on the bark.
A whimsical and wandering sight—The earth reclaimed by ether light