December Night in New York

Still glows

with blue-black embers
smolders its whiplash twilight
 
sidewalks are a slush minefield
poorly navigated
in the chaos of the
unofficial winter night
 
the glow of joy is all around—
some plastic,
some triumphant hubris,
and we forge our own
North Stars
and assemble them
for decorations
 
we journey
through these throngs
like wise men
we will never be,
to welcome the birth
of unseen miracles
in our sparkling city

Snow Language

 

The salt spackle splatter
of plow truck dialect
 
marks our caravan,
frost-hardened
from the industrial grime
of the cold
 
this underworld of harsh
allows our cozy fireplaces,
our gingerbread
 
the cruel season
also powers the firebrand sunset,
gives rest and time for comfort,
readies the earth for blooming
 
but first
 
delivers the pain
to make us stronger
with the sting of chapped skin
and brown dim
of night-sky afternoons
 
let this freeze
press us into its service
as we rush headlong into our winters
grinding through hard truths
and ready for Spring.