A white shawl

of crystal wool

drapes over the car,

with fringes of fingers

that wave in the wind.

.

The landscape implodes

for warmth and sleeps

in frozen silence, except

for the descent of white flakes

at the end of their journey.

.

A kettle whistles a hopeful song,

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