Winter’s Hour

by revbillcook

This is winter’s hour: a frozen moon

withdraws into a frozen sky. Thin aisles

of snow drift like ash, a white woven

shawl falls across your shoulders. Your smile

slowly fades in the soft neon light of the T.V.

recently turned off. This is the liquid hour.

Memories surge and recede, a shallow stream

disappearing among stones. A pale flower

once open to the sun now folds into

itself. This is the hour of dreams. The play

of your hair across my lips slips through

my mouth its texture lingers these many days.

The trace of your fingers slips through my hand

in this silent empty hour of snow and sand.

-Bill Cook

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