Who knows what makes this light
falling on College Street so inviting this morning
as it wraps itself around the old Chinese man,
suddenly alive, as his relatives appear?
Who knows what makes my eyes
so accepting, in the chill this morning,
minus thirty-one.? Perhaps
it is the chill itself, the abrupt relief,
as we sit with our coffees, my wife
and I, wrapping our hands
around the warmth of the cup.

I gaze at her, as if I’ve never seen her eyes,
the quality of blue
against the green of her jacket,
and realize that as she gets older,
or perhaps it is me, I see her more clearly,
as I see these people, each one
with a story, each taking refuge
from the cold.

COPYRIGHT© 2014 MARK GORDON