The sun sets early tonight on a palette of blues and grays.
Winter solstice, blowing on the spark.
Here’s a poem from the truly amazing poet, Kevin Goodan, from his book Winter Tenor. I highly recommend all of his books, especially his latest Let the Voices.
Untitled [Toward night]
Toward night, frail flurries of snow. Fingernails of willows
scratching frost from the edges of the kitchen window where I
watch the field beyond the fence where once corn was taller than
a man can reach but now I gaze into the kitchen of the next
farmhouse and watch the man with a bad leg hobble from sink to
table to feed his mother with a spoon. I keep the lights off and
study snow to augur from the flakes what fortune I may. The
furnace does its duty and cars pass, swirls of flurry captured in
fading prisms of red. If I stood on the road it would glow and
crackle beneath my feet. The air would be muted, my own breath
sounding as though it came from another body, a shadow leaning
faintly toward me as though to whisper any comfort. Animals
would unshelter themselves to stand waiting at the fence. Snow
would settle everything. I would cup my hands, realizing I had
become what it was I wanted to be. The body beside me would
breathe on. The two of us.