Trailways 7

The night is a clear, December darkness.
The early evening of long blue shadows
has deepened into night.

From my bus window
I watch the moon
glint against the new snow,
our white Christmas.

Colored lights encircle windows
and frame the doorways
in the suburbs and small towns I pass through
on my way to you.
My breath fogs the window
as I think, and rethink, and give up thinking.

You are home.
In your last letter,
you weren’t sure you could make it.
But you called me at work
from the airport
the day before yesterday,
your voice more subdued, but certain.
“I miss you,” you said.

So I have left my own family’s
Christmas eve chowder and presents
to come to you, as I must.

The question still stands between us.

The river,
not yet frozen,
is a dark ribbon of mystery
gliding below.

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