Premiere

January passed
without postcard scenery.

No rosy cheeks on children
rolling growing orbs
down white hills
sparkling in northern wind's
clarity sunshine.

Only runny noses
and rainy gutters,
an eternal damp clinging
almost but only almost frozen
to ankles and ambitions.

Not tearing like
the sub Celsius bite
draws tears with every gust,
but sinking stealthily inside,
sucking mere will out of marrow.

But now,
tiny chandeliers fall
thousandfold, tumbling
through sodium arcs
penetrating the night.

They drift, dance,

stick to my window,
surrender their beauty
to the warmth of glass
in vertical puddles,
distorting the view
of still soaring brothers
outside.

Soon they will
roll in descent
or freeze solid.
Which it will be
is neither my choice,
nor theirs.

But one for the winter,
finally here,
to decide.