in the moon, gleaming like a pearl above
the silence of the night;
golden snowflakes held within a streetlamp’s nimbus
drifting gently down, turning to swirling silver,
caressing a face with perfect, dwindling tranquility.
The man walks alone, a plastic bag hanging from his hand;
it’s cold, and his fingers are stiff, and his heart is tough and tired,
but maybe he’ll stay for a moment.
Is it the wind, rippling through the falling snow, that wets his eyes?
Or the sight of it?
Maybe he’ll stay,
and be awed by the world,
and be fragile for a little while.