He says it snows in Boston tonight.
I can only imagine
the pressing of ice
on old sidewalks with cracks of past winters.
Abutting narrow roads seasoned
with the poison grit of brine and sand.
I can only imagine
the weight of white
on leaves that are destined for descent.
Just outside his window ecto-etched
with the sky’s ice sighs.
I can only imagine
the warmth of air
pulsing in his new apartment
Into his bedroom furnished with the comfort
of hibernating dreams.
I say, he is warm in Boston tonight.
- 5 December 2009
