Home >> Volume 3, Issue 01

Winter Evening

Lee Evans

The village grows dim,
So far from the sun;
The leaves on the limbs
Scrape mindlessly on.
What refuge here lies,
Where drawn from the sky
My own constellation descends?

My thought has grown cold:
It sticks to the ground
Unmelting and holds
The earth in its bounds;
Makes phantoms of trees,
As frail chickadees
Hunt breadcrumbs about the still town.

See there, as the church
Grows mystic with white:
An ice laden branch
Obstructs from one’s sight
The cross of stained glass.
The First and the Last
Is one snowflake falling tonight.