Ice the color of winter’s night,
mist the burden of fire’s light,
deep in the womb of boxes rowed in lines,
haze of day’s decay, in remnants,
long in a black ragged horizon,
cloud swallowed and doused of flames.
Frosted windows abound,
as magic icy flowers grow on panes,
and inside rivers of drops flow
in slow descending lines,
as if jail cell bars contain,
yet these refuge boxes preserve the life.
Street lamps cut profoundly the night,
conical light through mist and blight,
to bare the chilled empty paths,
light like circular steps to nowhere,
adjacent to those smug boxes,
disconnected and self-contained.
The winds pick up and whistle arrogantly,
around gutters and eaves,
remnant leaves from autumn’s purge,
float away to be lost in the white frosting,
boasting a long and crisp demise,
now wrapped in winter’s prized cover.
Through defused windows,
dancing flames like flickering pictures
bring walls to life,
a warm and ghostly plight,
as books find favor and thoughts float on clouds,
imagination shrouding nature’s stark truth.
Children gaze through windows,
part views of brooding darkened skies,
occasional stars so distant, seem to speak,
and they to realize how snug they are,
cocoons all wrapped in winter’s white despair,
yet warmth is a silent and abiding comfort.
And if night is kind, those same children
will awaken to a wonderland of white,
a playground of joyous day
given so kindly by night,
as winter placates its gloom,
and those same boxes now no refuge at all.
Tony DeLorger © 2018