Winter Spirits

The phone sleeps curled up on the bedside stool The lampshade hangs its head in shame and sheds a sorrowful yellow The blank face of the tv like a baby on the hardwood floor My mind looks out from the attic it lives in. The snowscape: an artist's impression chalk on black paper Footprints mar the white where the dreams of yesterday have trudged on and gone smoothed over by the last snowfall meteor-burns on a perfect ridgiform The red light from a radio tower spreads banded legs into the night like a tarantula Flakes swirl in the flash of twigs around the streetlamp like the flies of winter Houses huddle down the lane look out from under snow coats clutched tightly around their ears like rows of homeless men Icicles hang before brooding windows. The road glistens wetly with its military stripes The sky is aglow with that mystery light of winter nights And I wonder if it's only passing cars and clouded breath that roam these secret streets.