On A Late Winter Night
While we breathe the first flow of arctic air,
ice embraces fallen leaves,
moonlight begins to fade.
The oak branches,
now as empty as rose stems appear,
while the light of morning begins.
There are no shadows.
I know sunshine soon shall reign,
will reassure each fig and ginkgo
to be of patience and surrender
toward that eternal moment
when energy comes again.
Meanwhile, a man makes no sound,
pulls himself closer inside his coat
while he watches the silent street.
He cannot count his times standing there;
that he longed to go back inside.
How he got into his car;
begged trees for energy;
headed out from home.