The sky, a dim reflection
of city lights, defines the backyards,
bare trees cracks in the sky.
Roof lines and chimneys hold
down blank mausoleums,
deep snow another reflection
of the sky, muffling sound,
the setting for a graveyard.
People of summer, silent souls,
huddle within, awaiting
the call to rise again on the next
warm gust of wind. A passing
car, the headlights two ghosts,
haunts the street with no hope.
The headlights pass, replaced by
two red lights, the only color,
a brief hint that something more
exists than the cold, calling out
to heated blood, anyone to emerge
and fill the air with breath's fog.
|