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Poem

Iron strangers on iron benches still
Frozen in time below barometers reach
At zero you can feel the touch of March
Remain motionless until both come alive
Which is never but never mind

Covered in the thick snow of middle winter
Coats and blankets unknown in these parts 
More dead than alive as forms might whisper
Once they lived but that is only a cold wind
Obviously a mistake, a joke among the trees
 
No one knows the names of faceless statues
Why should they?  The pines dangle low so frozen 
Branches ice laden in weight
Bow frozen under snow

Was it a cold and numbered day in February
Recollections of birds who left droppings
On what could have been in the phantom park's domain 
Making sounds picked up by silence and words unheard

Leaves clung on to hope of multicolored trees of fall
The man remembered everything he left behind
Locked the door, turned slowly on to cobblestone
One foot in front of the other as the airy rain kept coming
Keeping tempo to the time of thirty years ago or so
Which passed by in ordinary time more slowly

When he returned the door opened wide
Something funny was going on inside alright
Everything was organized except for something
If only he could remember what it was this time
He would not have stepped outside but he forgot
But thirty years would still have passed him by

February comes again with angry ice
With snow which covers every soul
Without the man who stepped outside to walk
By this time the lock and key will have changed

Rain will fall but never lose a drop
In seconds if not sooner if he returns
The man who stepped outside forgotten
The weather will have gotten better
If not worse this time

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