An aspheric candle,
half melted,
on the windowsill
in my tower room,
a tall flame
holding shape
then flickering with the draft,
this house is old,
this glass container
inefficient,
this January night ushers a new season
of winter despair.
A half-moon sky
silhouettes vaporous clouds,
a thin mist,
a weird shroud,
drifting through the washy night.
A cottonwood,
old peacekeeper,
thick skeleton with slender arms
stands in the dark ignoring the moon
and the candle in my window,
ignoring the calm cold,
he sleeps an ancient sleep,
he dreams a common dream.
By morning this will all be gone.