Winter, Turn Home

We've walked too far, December-
sharp air clicking around us,

a blind man's stick
seeking an edge; tap, tap

a nickel hammer percussing
a large frozen bell.

The city is sleeping, December;
white smoke from our lips,

the stacks of brick chimneys,
the nostrils of brown carriage horses.

These are prayers to be said
in cold, darkened alleys where

shadows creep over snow
like silent black wolves

and yellow-lit windows
(square shaped moons)

detach from their stone.
We've walked far, December,

the city is sleeping,
we finally turn home.

No comments: