White Night

lamp post at night in winter landscape with foosteps in the snow and train tracks on the left and distant lights on the right

Trampling through the snow,

floating through the snowflake flurry,

I made my way to the edge of the neighborhood

where the houses ended

and the woods began.

It was late at night

and all the windows slept.

Step after step, I climbed

the spiraling incline

to the deserted train station.

The broken plastic waiting-chairs

shivered in the cold.

Beyond the train tracks

the forest sang—

a tangle of rough branches

dark and stiff and frozen.

In the far-off distance, veiled by night,

a behemoth of stone blinked a red eye:

an old mill, half-fallen into ruins.

I turned my gaze away from it,

I stood under the bright white light

of a solitary cyclops lamp.

All seemed as it was before:

the night, the white, the cold.

But when I turned again toward the tracks

she was standing there,

white and beautiful and cold

arrived at last from other climes

with her icy ways and windy chimes.

One thought on “White Night

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