some fissure in winter
i.
the moon and the drifting clouds
—cosmic flashlight and shadows—
hold the night: silent, intimate.
i feel i shouldn’t see this, the way
they are looking at one another.
(i can’t tell if i choose the best
moments to look up, or if it’s
always this beautiful.)
ii.
it was an important evening, but i
couldn’t say why.
the suits and the gowns, oh my god—
and the gold everywhere: such brutal
elegance. i don’t recall the music, any
words whatever, instead i know the way the
light reflected on the polished floor
in muted pools that followed all evening,
that move as one moves.
and the moment that meant the most
was held, paused,
waiting.
stop looking at the floor.
(iii.
spring loves breathing at the windows,
sneaking into the room from some fissure
in winter, just when it would ache the most
to thaw.)
from Autumn Sky Poetry 21 — by Alexandra Cannon
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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