Observations In Winter
It was a morning when the trees wore birds for leaves,
dressing and undressing in winged waves.
At the iron gate only two balloons remained of the six,
each of opposing colors, red versus blue.
A man walked westward with pocketed hands,
his eyes fixed upon his dark worn shoes.
His breath escaped like tiny bits of soul.
Resignation was etched upon his weathered face.
I drove by in the opposite direction
without simile of any kind
wishing only for green to greet me
at every turn.
In one yard a cat ran up the walkway like a worried shadow.
In another, a small terrier the gray of the sky
ran in tiny circles,
nipping the cold air.
Was it something I said
when my ears were negligent?
Was it something I should have said
when my tongue lay dormant?
The sky was a wet dirty blanket over all our heads.
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