Midnight comes and goes while I wait
for the snow that was promised by 2.
I stare out at the dark stage of the night,
lit by the ghost- light of the walkway,
watching for the first snowflake to fall –
the prima ballerina in a winter ballet
pirouetting through the icy air.
I can hear the orchestral wind tuning,
its snarling and moaning
muted by panes of frosted glass,
accompanied by the clank
and hiss of the basement boiler.
The storm arrives like a ticker tape parade –
confetti drifting down,
dressing the city in satin and tulle,
hiding the loneliness behind
a wall of winter white.
About the Author
Paul Bluestein is a physician (done practicing), a blues guitar player (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He currently lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him. Nearby, there is a beach where he can let his mind off the leash to go where it wants. He is grateful that, thus far, it has always come back, sometimes with an interesting idea in its jaws.
Although he has written poetry for many years, he did not submit any of his work for publication until last year. Since then, he’s been fortunate to have had more than 40 poems accepted for publication.