7am

H. C. Sluys

I follow a convoy of snowmen
After a long, cold winter
Each lost in snowflake thoughts
The air turns warmer, gently
Sliding glass stops breezes, firmly
And night turns fluorescent
Footsteps echo between sparse faces
That, if one says "good morning,"
Respectfully extend a solemn nod,
Or beam with their own inner light.

January 19, 2004