Early December -
crisp, the teasing hint
of snow on my tongue,
though the earth is bare.
Instead, the sky hovers
inches from the ground, filled
with clouds, grey and soft and wide.
It is cold yet I wait
for you.

I do not know from where
you will come. Paris,
perhaps, or Rome. Some
famous ancient city I
have never seen.

The winter wind shakes
the brittle branches of
naked December trees
as if to say,
"I have seen all places,"
and remind me of my limits.

Frost crunches beneath my
feet, the withered grass crying.

10/20/2002

Posted on 10/20/2007
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