Frozen dew
covers

the abandoned

grass
that litters a small corner lot

like crystal shards
dropped from last night’s starlight.

Never mind the overly early morning, though,
that writes
with the long shadows of naked tree limbs.

No script
can recreate

the weight of the bitter wind
that wails

with all the sympathy of dispirited souls

who seek gaps in the brick walls
of the warm halls of the sheltered.

But like a framed background
of an illusion,

the skyline
outlined by a frosty attic window

captures
a city too busy
to bear the weight of its own expectations,

a rampart against those
whose voiceless words
quiver

in the shiver
of the first draft of winter.