Walking home-

on the edge...

Walking home on the trailing edge
of a kind winter day, dallying, not 
to arrive before our conversation 
ends, turning onto our own street,
stepping into the shining moment
when the whole town settles still 
and quiet for barely long enough 
to hear the crystal light let fall,
soft and softer even than snow;
Shadows rise and in the houses
porches bloom bright arrivals;
Tired children are come home,
and before they invent habitual
recreational quarrels, are glad
to sit together around the table
laid in love for their own need;
If it were April now, windows
would be open and we might
hear faintly as we passed by,
a glad mother singing her joy.

Walk in hope-

-henry