POETRY PAGE FOUR
FIFTY-SIX, FEBRUARY 1, 2001
(Copyright © 2001 Al Aronowitz)
ON THE SOLSTICE
sun this brief December day
is half a light above the trees.
The wind-chimes sound just like the way
an old man fumbles with his ring of keys.
feel the frost within my bones,
and stir exhausted coals of fire.
The world is white and made of stones.
Whatever happened to my blond desire?
skates the night with steel support,
and tempts me in my halting prayers.
Letís hope the days of storms are short.
Already snow obscures the walk and stairs.
lamp is on, the light is thin.
A simple room becomes an ark.
I pour my tea and read again:
"Itís not the cold that kills, it is the dark." ##
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