There was a winter thing inside the statue, where the sun once spoke but now was silent. A living pattern of cold in space. I looked on from the playground, from the bedroom, from the battlefield, where silent ghosts surrounded me so gracefully. In the rays of light there were beings of song, like prismatic hues gone musical in relation. I remembered these ones, now so near at hand. From marriages and dreams. From shapes in the surf’s edge, transforming as I followed them. It was me inside the statute. A living pattern of cold in space. A winter thing.