snow blackened around the fire pit – a basket set near about 4 months ago has taken on the color of ash. old men huddled on a bench made by a young man, there to warm their hands, but it’s too close to twilight – for this day and for them - air smells of snow and night sky - hopeless amber sinking almost into a sunset. dark comes down quick. a lantern’s lit by someone. illuminated vacuum.
what year is it? numbers – rough black marks against cornered shadows – snow slides from slate shingles heaping to feed mud gardens.
a woman in heavy clothes down the flat towards huddled homes – none of which are hers to approach. almost dignity almost
elegant – silent grace under unnamable pressure – she carries herself – only a gesture made by time tho’ time is only measured on this side – not from where it is or comes from.
she stands out against the violet snow – her hood hiding all but the white of her jawline. trees hold out their numb, numb branches in longing reach toward her limbs as if to gather home one of their own and call forth its rootless secrets.
someone left a red scarf in the gutter – one spot of brite color. her grey boots click past on an ice patch in sweet lonely familiar. her breath-music shows pale glowing in gathering darkness. she draws herself closed, together-ed, protective – a sense of hurry though she doesn’t move terribly fast. a sense that she is leaving – gone already – waiting for the details to catch up with her absence.
one person is watching her without an answer. most of the late noon, he’s worked through a window painting a moment long gone and unarrived – stroking in walls, positioning trees, stark measured road and 10 minutes of sunset. The woman intrudes but through failing daylight and spontaneity, he blocks her into the scene quickly and decides
a beautiful surprise – his heart drops a beat to pick up the scatter of hers in a need for movement, unknown until met – a relief from dense, dirt packed snow.
like her, he has retreated. he is old with aching – he can feel himself dissolving.
for a moment, he wishes fiercely at her to turn and look at him straight on.
but she doesn’t turn and later, he is glad for this – needing her, as she is, moving away through a snowy canvas tunnel.
a real woman, an apparition, fixed and frozen in her haste,
suspended and ever departing.
