In the Season of Facing Away

by my own sadness
for all the beautiful world.
And for my failure
to chase some of it into
the bowls of light laid in snow
under the streetlamps.

There’s that scent on the air again,
cold, under a closing-down moon.

Today came wanting my devotion
like so many before. I did my best
to oblige. As I look back
over collar and shoulder, a figure
forms from out of the dark.
Some longings appear
so frequently
they must be instinct.

It helps, to think this way,
turning the corner, toward home.