smSECTION ELEVEN
POETRY PAGE FOUR
sm
COLUMN
FIFTY-SIX, FEBRUARY 1, 2001
(Copyright © 2001 Al
Aronowitz)
BALLAD
ON THE SOLSTICE
The
sun this brief December day
is half a light above the trees.
The wind-chimes sound just like the way
an old man fumbles with his ring of keys.
I
feel the frost within my bones,
and stir exhausted coals of fire.
The world is white and made of stones.
Whatever happened to my blond desire?
It
skates the night with steel support,
and tempts me in my halting prayers.
Let’s hope the days of storms are short.
Already snow obscures the walk and stairs.
The
lamp is on, the light is thin.
A simple room becomes an ark.
I pour my tea and read again:
"It’s not the cold that kills, it is the dark." ##
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