We watch these streets in winter, waiting.
Sidewalks lined by ash trees, sweetgums,
some dying, their twigged ends gesticulating.
Winter waiting, there is no redemption.
Humps of snow salt-stained, growing.
Everything an apprehension
of the longest season and
the patience of finally knowing.
In the arctic cold of January when
the flesh is cancelled, dismissed,
go out, sit down, lay back in in a drift
and feel your forehead kissed
by the hushed and icy air.
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Comments about this poem (In Lamplight by Don Tiedemann )
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