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