Before I’m pickled, before the brine, I hang low in gardens on a vine.

Pebble's gentle touch On water's serene canvas Echoes outwardly

I play the violin by your ear at two A.M., then charge admission in blood.

From rooftops I may often hang, silent, cold, and sharp as a fang. Though made of water, I feel like stone, In winter’s grasp I’ve slowly grown.

I’m a tiny drop of ink from the summer sun, Multiplying on your nose when the winter's done. A constellation on your skin, I love the outdoor light, But hide away in shadows and fade out of sight.