Rolling the trash to the street, Monday night, cold rain
In the neighbor’s security spotlight, activated by my foraging,
The rain is turning to snow. No longer just the path of a motion
But the substance of a season. No longer a man in the dark
Putting out trash but, striding through the door, carrier
Of a million fragile messages of light, change, gravity.
Ah. This is lovely.
‘a million fragile messages of light’ gave me goosebumps. 🙂