Turning

Outside the cold pane of glass,

lawns are softened and outlined in white

as the sun struggles to shake off

the night, yawning and stretching

and grumbling at its too-bright awakening.

Up and down the shadowed street,

motors rumble in darkness-tinged dawn,

plumes of sour-smelling gas rising straight upwards

like foggy prayers for a warmer tomorrow.

Neighbors nod in greeting en route

to their eight-hour day in a box, bleak and lonely,

to sate the unending appetite of mortgages,

electricity bills, and charity of giving thanks.

The creeping gray skies are daydreaming

about snowflakes, the cut of wind across

cheeks like a katana’s kiss that withers

the false promise of pumpkin spice lingering

too long into the sales of a fraying season.

Our snow shovels are ready, even if we are not—

garden hoses coiled and stowed in locked sheds,

rows of bikes stored neatly in garage racks,

and the slow march of decorations unwound from dusty

crates, ready to shine again. We’ve found treasures can

abound in the anticipation of frozen miracles

and memories we’ve chosen to recall in the sharp

scent of pine rosin and ginger cookies and woodsmoke

rising through the chilled afternoon as it’s turning

toward another night, bringing us closer to year’s end.