O, under open white sky,
I’ll watch the grey kaleidoscope
dusting and swirling, like the hope
of a white winter, cold and dry.
The icy sharp bite brings a slow
cutting blow, where the birds no longer fly.
Steaming cider and hot tea;
The people walking glance, and pass
by the windows, huddled like cats,
Shivering and grinning. Pleased.
Nothing but barren trees and dead grass
on the corner of Pennsylvania and Thirteenth.
Lit log-piled hearth fire,
I see a shadow tango in the firelight.
I feel an ember smolder with delight,
And hear the long-lost plucking of a lyre
who echoes; breaking through the sight
of a cracked, and trans dimensional mirror.