by Loretta Diane Walker
Winter toys with shadows.
Whispering shocks of cold.
A bare oak like fingers of lightning
silhouetted on a canvas of snow.
Tonight’s sky— glassy.
The language of impish stars visible.
Their dialogue of laughter circles the moon,
that aspirin-colored belle of darkness.
In the distance, a car horn intrudes silence.
A pigeon sits on the porch of a blue row house.
Maybe change happens with a sudden blow
or in the privacy of continuous unwinding.
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