The light is blue

I like when the light is blue
as it falls
on a January day late
afternoon after two
feet of snow have lain.

The man-made light is
golden in-between
from windows or lamps
here and there
dotted in the silence and the cold.

My heart too
is cold, and blue, and golden -
submerged as it is under
the ice and snow of
all the years.  I rub my
hands at the stove, watch
the flame and fuel the fire.

There are people out there with
no roof, no stove, who have 
forged their way in the dark
a lonely groove, singular,
made of stars
and choices
where the cards were against
them.  I don't know their names.

Maybe in that deep place
all hearts beat the same
despite surface weather.  In the
silence of my home, loud with
my thoughts all forlorn, how
hard are the days without them,
without those who made
the ghosts of us real.

The light becomes navy as it
goes.  Living the Dickensian
is the same now as it was then.
The rags and the riches
carriages and Kings
rooftops and gutters
poor fool
if only you had known.

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