Winter Mornings on 17th Street (poem)

The sky tumbles to Earth and shatters

to ice. Snow folds like colorless oceans

and shifts, greedy, across naked trees.

The creek shines clear and clean

as wiped porcelain. A man in dark wool

studies the frozen currents,

drops twigs and pine needles on the ice

and tries to conjure some prophecy of spring.

Wind slips subtle as a thorn

through jackets and gloves.

I do not know this city,

and the ravens are quiet. 

The man in dark wool stands,

hopeless, the twigs piled at his feet,

burned by invisible fire.

_______________________________________________________

This poem originally appeared in Flying Island in January 2018. It is included in my upcoming book of poetry, Bright Soil, Dark Sun, through Finishing Line Press.

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