These relics weren’t always disguised by sleet.
That letter resting between the envelope’s wheat-

thinned lips will sit unfinished, indelible
and shapeless as most evenings are. This man, unavailable,

A lost mitten in a snow bank barely visible from the sidewalk
The crunch of ice under snow boots from Canadian Tire
Light from a single car’s headlights bounces off untouched snow banks
Sparkling momentarily before returning to the dull blue-white
Only late winter’s night can produce
Smell of the crisp, cold air takes over the senses
As the sins of the day hide in shadows and starlight and silence
Trees hold up their ghostly limbs, barren but for their white piping
Saving them from the embarrassment of naked extremities,
A procession of otherworldly sentinels guarding houses from prying eyes