The sharp and beautiful thing

In the night

in some dark hour

the dying was already over.

Winter, the stalker,

had pounced.

At the far end of the platform

over the glinting tracks

dawn rose pink, empty, and

innocent.

The little pools of murky water

had frozen into silver mirrors.

The Ailanthus trees along the chain-link

twinkled just like chandeliers.

The squat concrete station

made for utility, not for beauty

had been transformed into a palace, all pastel and crystal,

but I had hardly noticed.

In my head, I was composing emails

my to do list tabulating like ticker tape

deciding what to worry about today,

and what could wait.

Turning to the timetable,

the wind catches my chin between its stiff fingers

sucks the breath from my throat, tears into my eyes

demands I look at what it's done.

And gasping, shatter-eyed

I know at last what winter has done,

the sharp and beautiful thing winter has done.

And all that could wait a moment ago,

here at knifepoint of rosy-fingered dawn, cannot.