Old Friend 

Inspired by Dan Chiasson and Joanna Klink

Moonlit air freezes the words on my tongue

changing their essence as does happen seasonally.

I remain silent in fear that Wind wants them for itself

to scatter carelessly across this desolate plane.

Dressed up in white, Old Friend crosses my field,

eyes burning with intelligence beyond my own capacity:

two flickering candles which embody the restlessness

of a vagabond unsure where it will sleep.

He moves against an unforgiving winter,

a grace of feeling I could hardly believe:

a sense of peace so deep I extend out my hands,

left instead clinging to the ghostly sound of snapping twigs.

Four ephemeral seconds blanketed in reverberation.

What better witness than this observant snow?

A minute to record in thick volumes of history,

its only permanence an empty thoroughfare and me.

Distinct lanes of footprints measure in vain

the ingredients that could never recreate such tranquility.

I embrace newfound solitude, for it is not real:

I have a euphoric coffee brewing which too

enters my winter mug and I am awake.

It tastes of dusk and stars and snowflakes because I know

You were here once. You will be here again.