Any day now the first snow will come.
Like a ghost following me down the street.
At midnight when the air is clear
as a secret pool at the bottom of a cave.
It will come in a thin sheet of flurries,
as my eyes gaze at the sidewalk.
In another place, in ripples of loneliness,
I pick out faces.
At midnight when a man has no place
to go but in himself,
and a phantasmagoria approaches
from his back.
In a moment, I will turn
and like a boy seeing his first love again,
shout inside himself.
Opening my arms to the snow
as it washes over my cheeks,
my eyes moist with happiness.
A season of dark promises,
lightning flashing silently in the air.
I am being put to bed
with my heart at peace.
The first snow.
Faces in adjacent windows peering
from the darkness, joining me.