She comes into the city
quiet and cold, enters an old house
wearing a weave of shadows.
Her neckline and sleeves trimmed
with beads of ice. Her pale hair vaporous.
Birds rustle in the rafters
seeking asylum from the wind,
the bare chill of branch and street.
She hears the uneasiness
in their movement, remembering
how fear hovers and echoes
in the half light. Uncertainty
that crafts its own curfew
shutting everyone inside
the darkness of his or her
imagination, the deafening bell
of a heart that does not mute.
She looks out the window,
her contours and those of the city
outlined in gray, the shade of ash
used by providence
to define her presence, to sign
her name. Yet , her face is lit
in a glass pane by the moon.
A translucent blush
belonging more to a votive flame.