Snowfall
The evening seems
to draw a breath,
then stretches a silence
like hide pulled tight across
a large, expectant drum.
Moonlight chromes four rusted
garden chairs and sets
each with a sense
of someone gone, a presence
imprinted on vacated
spaces left years ago.
Clouds move in soundless haste
to heal the tiny patch of sky
through which the moon
has bled its light.
Snow begins to fall and takes
whatever light remains
to illuminate the passage
of each fragile flake
until they reach the ground,
melt, and are gone.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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