Only one cell in the frozen hive of night
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city
creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.
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Comments about this poem (In January by Ted Kooser )
- One Mode of Mortal Devotion, William Park
- Glow worm, Mark Heathcote
- FOOT STEPS, Harold R Hunt Sr
- The Highest Human Virtue Surprisingly Is.., Mr. Nobody
- Time Marches on, Harold R Hunt Sr
- Our First Day, Harold R Hunt Sr
- Another Day, Harold R Hunt Sr
- Who Am I?, Harold R Hunt Sr
- A letter to you, Harold R Hunt Sr
- What are moms made of?, Harold R Hunt Sr
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