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(Ames, Iowa)

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In January

Only one cell in the frozen hive of night
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city
creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003


Read poems about / on: laughter, city, wind, january, light, night, flower

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Comments about this poem (Selecting A Reader by Ted Kooser )

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  • john tiong chunghoo (9/24/2006 4:20:00 AM)

    dear ted, this is the haiku to your poem:

    night
    the shimmer of the city
    in the river

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  • Percy Dovetonsils (1/29/2005 1:38:00 PM)

    Haiku-like. 'the wintry city creaks like an ancient wooden bridge' is spot on. The syllables somehow sound like the thing they are talking about. This must be one of his best.

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