The moon withdraws.
Snow and ice spit the night,
a ting, ting on street signs,
windshields as we stride by,
breaths frosting the air.
Forewarned of the storm, days passed.
No hint in sight, we went back
to living. Cocooned
in the theater’s snug womb,
other lives mesmerized us.
Now, caught downtown in the flash
of traffic lights, we hurry to the car.
Wind bitters the branches, our skin.
A man shrouded in layers of scraps
sags into a doorway, and I turn my head.
What do we do with truth?
Clouds collapse the horizon,
buildings and treetops sheathed in white.
City muffled in numb flurries —
my vision obscured waiting for manna,
a pillar of fire in the ever–deepening snow.