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”