On a winter’s balcony, my sight—
Through leafless trees, through
Crisp winds, through sackcloth night—
Beholds the distant hills, cloud-covered,
Aflame with city lights. The contrast
Of colors is patent: the hilltops filled
With sauntering yellowish-white;
The air above that, a slate
Of graphite; all else in black.
The night moves always. And sometimes
Within us. There’s a soft striving,
Like a slow dance in the dark,
Through the dark, towards a light.
Towards something unfathomable,
Though it feels almost tangible.
There’s no greater desire than desire.
I let what I see, for awhile, move
Within me, then turn away.