february first

shall i tell you about the ephemeral sparkle of light on wood

as each piece of cracked glass in the vase

caught and held the lampgleams for a moment

reflecting them back in the mirrored shine of walnut —

or about the pale slender bodies of the candles

leaning toward each other across the expanse of the dressertop —

or about the golden streetlights

shining outside my window

on the softly falling snow?