WINTER’S GLANCE

I lean like a ladder and reach

with my face into the cherry tree’s first floor.

I’m inside the bell of color that rings with sun.

The black-red berries I polish off faster than four magpies.

Then suddenly I’m struck by a chill from far away.

The moment darkens

and remains like an ax-scar on a trunk.

From now on it’s late. We take off half-running

out of sight, down, down into the ancient sewer system.

The tunnels. Where we wander for months,

half out of duty and half in flight.

Brief prayer when some hatch opens over us

and a weak light falls in.

We look up: the starry sky through a drainage grate.