#84

You've lost the ability to walk,
the noble two-step shuffle across
the thick ice on the lake, the marshlands
in reverse that slide you gently
toward the swans swimming under the surface.

With a stumble and a beat,
you hear the birdsong frozen in air,
making crystal music notes that hang
on the telephone lines and the car exhaust
that breathes along like a wheezing trumpet.

Back to the ground, weighted blades of grass
envelope you like eyelashes, like a wink
on a New Year's Eve, the train station
at six am, saying goodbye, sending off with
an icicle symphony.