They have never met before,
these two lovers who pass each other on the snow-carpeted street.
There is nothing between them save
the briefest and most meaningful exchange of glances.
A young man stumbles on the slippery pavement,
regains his balance
and moves on.
(A waft of cider in his wake.)
The colour of this night—its romance, its essence—is wanting;
the insipid, bright incandescence of street-light
dims the world.
Alone— stood still— wondered— first apprehended
silence.
~
Beneath feet
frost glitters
and stars are tread upon.
~
Christmas lights flourish through heat-fogged windows,
and the cheer
warm within
—better days finding their way back home,
if but for a night.
Looking there—hidden well, beside all the lights—
one window
is dark.
It does not pretend
joy,
goodwill,
compassion,
or a truce in view of the occasion.
Within it is dark, and ghosts accompany
those who have just come in
from the cold;
a coldness that is
an affinity for these
wraiths akin.
~
For a moment the ornaments steal me away—
for a moment—
from the mob I weave through;
moments
that I have come to cherish;
moments
wherein I have lived a thousand lives and one,
in one.
But the lights, hung this way and that, usher my return
and I continue
on my way,
as I have always
done.
M.M. — November-December MMX
