The night low, lonely, composed.
The soft snow. Hush and slush. Footprints
Filling in with the silence of funeral ghosts
who don’t know who to mourn. Darkness abounds.
A distant woman’s voice. Incense to the mystery.
The fragrance of a bell. The smoke of a harp.
The whole night swallowed in a single gulp of peace.
First snow. Cat at the window. Where
do they all come from? The downing of the flakes.
Endlessly out of the sky for anyone’s sake.
The drifting down to kiss the evening on the eyelids
and melt as if all the tears were on the outside.
