These are the nights of nostalgia. There is no moon, and though the house is warm, it is not cozy; the wind woos the cold panes as though dark ice could love. In the streetlight, the shivering shadows swoop through tall tunnels of snow; and in the centers of these cyclones stand the ones I have loved and lost, or forgotten, and they cry with the wind. My head is crowded with flashes of memory: places I have known, bridges I have lingered over, benches I have dreamed on. Times when the sun wasn't a liar; when hopes and futures bloomed. I cannot walk but a single path tonight without interruption, by a lost sigh, a loved city. My heart folds itself again and again upon its folds, an oragami swan, growing smaller and smaller. I know, I do, that when the crocus blossom and they will, they always do; my heart will unfold just as the indigo petals. It will again hold much, and reach out to embrace all life. But tonight there is no moon. My heart hugs itself tight, and sleeps.
17 February 1998