The Dangerous Nature of Sun

Dear Departed,
I have left a letter for your mother.
Illiterate, she will hang it on your bedpost, like a dream.
It will gleam, grown sharp over
the ice age-
A danger to those
who pass under it.
That was our bed, the boxspring of our yearning,
and the pillows of my passion-
soft, and bursting
I thought we could change the season
from winter to some kind of burning.
But I'm hopeless, and in that, still learning
how to put my hands on the sun.