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As the snow comes down it swims
In luminous particles beneath the
Halogen lights that line the street,
Like the action of motes when dusk
Lays a golden beam through glass.
At this hour, the street is empty of
All pedestrians : at long intervals,
Solitary cars make their slow way
Down its length, their low engines
Breaking the hush, leaving dark,
Parallel curvatures as they crawl
Penitently toward the residential
Garages. Their is a rumour on the
Air as of an idea being born, but
It is only the fall of what has now
Fallen down the catalogue of years.
Our solitary life : the precipitation
Of sparks out of the great anvil of
A barren night, the snow lighting
Upon us in its fiery shoals. We are
As children, looking upon grace.