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.