Flurries

It’s different than a sun-bleached afternoon back in July
overcast, gray and brisk, the winter air hangs low
the street deserted, all are warm indoors
a moody stillness has settled
over the day as it
fades into
dusk.

On the porch, plans to catch up, with a book, a friend
hidden behind white scalloped lace curtains
the outside chill presses at the window
as tree branches scratch the sky
on a Monday of solitary
moments in
December.

Light from a neighbor's kitchen slips its
yellow glow through shaggy cedars
reassuring, in a muted way
that others are
close
by.

Snow flurries, like strangers lighting a candle
casually appear and drift down to the
fallow, dull-green lawn dotted
with cracked oak leaves
and melt into
the frozen
ground.