Before the Frosted Sill

Snowflakes slant past the window,

a pale pattern of shadows

after the flame reflected;

in the glass, lit ices glisten

as I curl to the candle

and listen:

Beyond the pane, peals of laughter ring

strange as angels in the dead of morning.

Oh jealous so of echoes I

loose the latch, the foreframe prise

and leaning near better to hear

admit a nether air;

as first cups gutter’d fire afraid

to repair –

the second hand seeks the broken seal

in hopes the howling crack will heal.


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