LIGHTS
The wind is whipping bare the
trees - early morning light struggles
in, the street-signs stress and turn and
twist. Odd metallic noises make
announcements - a garbage truck,
the street-sweeper, slide by. It is
the week before Christmas, or the
week after, again - it never really
matters, these chafing things. Someone
has put colored lights up along the window
glass. They dangle on their strings.
-
We soon will have to move to another
year - the announcer says - begin
another circle, start another tear; while
those amongst me, taking their leave, run
to Ireland or Washington D.C. or their
own Buenos Aires. Circumnavigating
globes like idiot-savants in outer-space,
going out, coming back, returning safe.
-
It is the cold England or Norway of
another year - and some newly meager
Christmas to return will re-appear, while
within my head still burns the heat of
Summer and all of its light.
No comments:
Post a Comment