the darkest day of the year
Rain coats the ground like an oil-slick balm.
An intersection–that modern word for crossroads–
stretches in four shadowed directions beneath the cloudy sky.
the damp air is warm
This is no gateway to winter
but the heavens’ own samhain,
a funeral feast for the broken world,
a rebellious cry to reclaim the dying spirits of autumn.
The scarlet brightness of the stoplight shimmers on the sheen of water,
a mock sunrise over a black pavement ocean.