Moving Picture

Winter is moving ahead, each day colder,
then one day arrives
when we can see the light of other autumns,
the clouds undoing their bandages.

The wound of the sky, as if it were our own,
reflects on the stone chimney, on the sheets
of concrete, as we unlock the gate, walk the dog
where the rock salt made a terrible burn.

I am confused by this day,
a back step of weather, shining
like the single warm spot
of your body as you move into a room.

Inside, a bulb of forced amaryllis—
its clownish red sprigs—sits on a nightstand.
By the window, the gray foreheads

of roofs overlook our path,
and the neighborhood's houses nod,
approving, like parents,
squinting their eyes in the light.

Copyright © 2005 David Cazden All rights reserved
from Moving Picture
Word Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission