The Color of Absence

The white of a newborn snow’s an illusion;
winter’s true color’s the dead gray of smoke,
in ominous plumes over black ice on highways,
of cigarette nights spent in longing’s cold bed.

The pale white of winter’s the color of absence;
a bone white square on an empty gray wall,
a diary’s page on her desk by my window,
the white of her lips where red kisses once played.

The year’s longest night heralds winter’s arrival;
the sun flees in tears from her frost-covered grave,
the moon veils its sorrow in clouds thick as woodsmoke,
as red embers fade to the still gray of ashes

and snow palls the earth in a shroud of white linen
and turns hearts to marble, cold-blooded as thieves.