swirling, transformed by orange-powder glow
of streetlights to fading fireflies, coveys
transmuting to frost piles in grass. They show
how swiftly all presence alters. We freeze
here with them, love, yet choose our place outside
beneath broad oaks of night, forsaking blaze
of fireplaces for our cloaked bodies, side
by side, gazing as flood of flakes form glaze
across our sleeves, thin heat of our clasped hands
somehow rising to transcend all cold. Tell
me with a flaming glance how we’ll withstand
spirit’s winter, grasp horror of its spell
and crush it in our bold embrace. We’re told
as lips touch we’ll glow long after we’re old.
Roger Armbrust
January 29, 2010
