Outside, a cold wind blows down silent streets

Lined with cars, silent themselves, windows

Glazed over, sightless eyes beneath cataracts

Of frost, and snow veils follow crooked

Sidewalks made uneven by the roots of trees

That have risen from beneath over the coarse

Of times passing, to form heaving rivers of

Crumbled cement that nobody walks upon

This day, unless perhaps those dancing veils

That shift and swirl are spirits, lost souls

Compelled to wander here in search

Of whatever secrets lay hidden behind

Closed doors and darkened windows, small

Houses made into silhouettes by a blanket

Of rolling fog, and perhaps it is not the wind

That moans against my silhouette, but the

Crying voice of desperation, pleas unheeded

As they make their way from house to house

Across yards of frosted grass that look like

Gaping mouths filled with hungry white teeth.

END

“Veils”