winter evening


Now is the season we dreaded

Cold and grey, like old age itself

Wind and rain and snow

We hide in houses and

Are happy when the stove burners

Spark to blue flame

With butter in the pan

And Bill Evans on the piano

Both sizzle softly


At night we stand atop furnace grates

And relish the warm lift of air

On feet and legs

Look out at the bright moon

And quiet stars

Into cold space

Then close the curtain and turn down

the blanket and sheets

Open some hundred-year-old book

And shut the alarm clock

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