“The Winter Hours”
The winter hours are safest for
The plow; they so easily provide excuse to keep
On moving in despair here to hopes of there with deep
Devotion to the task. No bus, no métro car,
No walk through cobalt icebound parks
Allows the luxury of lingering admiration.
Exposure of limb, hands, feet,
He’ll not remain in temperatures that have no heat
With trusts that have no memory. Transportation
Only occupies his thoughts, no time for sparks,
Nor accounting in the arc of sirens to the eye;
No genuflection to the fleeting moment, distraction on the fly.
Of course, the beauties of certain summer’s wealth
Welcomes him in time, but in the hour he relies on stealth.