White Out

I’ll always love the darkness
of a snowstorm at night when

the sky descends, sighs heavy
against my pursed lids and lips.

Cold needles still settle lightly
between tight eyes and lashes

air dripping in dashes and gashes.
The brisk blackness is tree-lined

in white—touched by the snow
covered and drooping branches

silent statues of writers and war
heroes are there to stand watch.

Always I open my mouth to gasp,
grasp falling flakes with my tongue

while you raise your black umbrella
so that we are embraced, huddling

and hidden from the wintery wind.
There’s no winter moon, nor children

rising up from the snow as angels
to pull Flexible Flyers, the red rims

cutting double paths as they go
home to the glow of lit up windows.

 

 

 

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