The evening tastes as if it has aged.

The wind continues to rage in its fury.

Clouds hover below a silent sky, hiding

a city, darkly lit, masked in nocturnal secrets.

Tavern-goers scurry, scrambling along the walk

into the deadly refuge of their mobile caskets.

Boys wait on the corner for the downtown bus,

waiting to be carried off into maturity (or obscurity).

Shop lights flicker for a moment, then die.

As the lonely late-night worker turns

the final bolt of security against the dangerous night,

safely enveloped by his dusty domestic cage.

Screen doors slam in sinful suburbia.

Stray hounds howl at the passing stranger.

Leaving the moon to shine on like a diamond on the black sea.

Lawns and driveways reflect winter’s black ice.

Soon the Earth will breath warmth into the living again.

Approaching spring, summer slowly slides

into the spoken stories of streets and neighborhoods

like trees that age with the rings of the seasons.

Looking out of the window, snow flows down the alley way,

Saturated soil remains unyielding, freezing, waiting

for the sun to emerge from behind its shroud of clouds.

bringing emancipation, the melting of winter’s chains.

George Cassutto

November 28, 2010

Image by George Cassutto
Used with Permission