A white shawl

of crystal wool

drapes over the car,

with a veiled fringe

that waves in the wind.

.

The landscapes implode

for warmth, and sleep

in silence, except

for the soft descent

of white flakes,

ending their journey.

.

A kettle whistles

a hopeful song, and the cat

naps by the smiling brick sun.

Few words are spoken in the tomb

with numbers on the mailbox

out by the road.

01/22/2005