The dusty light
Filters through ancient trees
At the snow before
Touching ground. I stand
At the corner of Spring and Mulberry,
A bar at eight in the morning
Sun lighting sailor stripes.
An old man leans, laughing
Over his beer, hands waving
In the dusty light.
I am not beside him;
Outside in the cold
I plant foot to heel in mucky snow
On towards Broome.


I turned the corner
And came upon quiet.
The morning air
Gray and weary;
Suddenly leaves stopped
Blowing and the air
Settled around my feet;
Leather and wood
Against cold cement
Wet in November.

Sunday Morning

This morning the
City was quiet
For a brief moment
The hum and rush of
Life, traffic below
Was silenced as
We waited
Quietly to wake.


Maybe we are moths
Maybe all we are is fluttering softly
Towards light.