Winter Morning

By Richard Meier

Shyly coated in greys, blacks, browns –
to keep us out of sight of the cold –
we weren’t expecting this this morning: sun

and shadows, like a summer’s evening, like summer
teasing. And not quite under the shelter on
the northbound platform, an old man, the sun

behind him, just his crown ablaze; and heading
southbound, a woman inching ever nearer
the platform edge, the light a tear

across her midriff, ribcage, shoulders, closer
and closer that dearest thing, completeness,
all her darkness light at the one time.

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