City dusk
the warmth
of an ATM booth

blaming . . .
at some point the rain
became snow

first snowfall . . .
a chirp to remind us
the battery’s low

          midnight mass
the stained glass infant glows
            from within

quiet twilight
Grandpa prunes thin limbs
with his pocketknife

full moon
the static
in his touch

longest night —
the death poem
rustles

moonless night —
our neighbor’s telephone
rings and rings

dead of winter . . .
relighting
the pilot flame

calling home —
the color of mother’s voice
before her words