We live on the dark street at night,
Rows of old houses huddled in the cold.
Only one small door has a hesitant light
Glowing yellow against wooden gold.
Flowers and weeds are crushed and dry,
Wreathing withered, brown, grass yards.
Frozen blades crack as feet walk by,
Only wild things cross the hay-like swards.
Old people huddle near the wood stove
Or bake bread and pies in the oven.
Their little dogs are let out for a minute’s rove.
Even they shy away from a world so frozen.
The world of black and white
Dims sight and stultifies the senses
It dulls imagination.
So one goes to sleep and waits.
Waits for morning and
The first ray of sun
Reminding one of spring
And the light, warming the street.
December 2020
This was my impression when glancing out the front door late at night. I was cold and seemed much darker than usual, which was fitting.