Twilight returns to its holy scar.
Locomotive pulling north to where the scent
of fur is carried on a glacier’s tongue,
impossibly delicate starlight strung
forest to field behind open boxcar doors.
The red embers of animal eyes
reflecting iron passage, moon
plants quivers of blue silver inside forest.
Veteran on the small platform facing north,
swearing his oaths, breath fogs staccato
into a gray stream taken by wind.
Adjusting his top coat, he’s ready to parade
having survived another memory
as snowfall’s white silence
dissolves the membranes
of an inhaled pace.
The hidden moon does send envoys
carrying white feathers, conditional
easements granted below blue-gray memories
of loves. He allows his remaining hope
to mine the shadow of a promise
as winter digs into his lungs.
Charles F. Thielman