February
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

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