Winter's Lantern

The snow on the ground is aglow at midnight A sheet of moonlight Like a sketchpad with shadows Stretched from tree limbs furiously penciled in, A speakeasy dance floor from the 1920s Mobbed and sashaying, Doing the jitterbug, With black arms and black legs Pumping stutter-stepping, Swaying forward then back Hands risen as if polishing the air with praise In a wind that creaks in these trees Like kindling wood caught on fire. Who is the ghost, here, in this freezing rhythm? These poltergeist dancers? Floating Between now and then drinking gin, Lit by a swinging winter lantern? Or is it me? Weaving through the phantom crowd, A traveler from the future, Pardon me, looking good, Carrying a tray of translucent light above my head? Or is the celestial artist the true spirit? The only one who really exists? Yes, I think it is the brilliant artist, The invisibly sketching Goddess bringing life to the long dead, While lurking from her corner table, cold cigarette in hand, Diligently recording history. Oh oblivion of time and space I make my way to her, A coming total lunar eclipse.