At the End of the Street Lies the Sky

At the end of the street lies the sky
dressed in the purple magician’s robe
of eventide and the winter storm.
Tonight she sculpts stairs of ice and
snow. She casts spells upon the laden
earth and the dying man can hear
her invitations in the blizzard, in
dreams that are like all other dreams
except soundly, deeply, more vividly.
He leaves while his wife is sleeping.
He leaves without any goodbyes.
There is no gentle kiss for her lips
no tussling of the boys’ hair or
kiss for the daughter with the moon-
shaped face. This is not intentional.
How could he know the destination
of this dream? He leaves his house,
walks down the silent street and
past the rows of barren trees
that shield the homes of dear
neighbors who helped round out
the days, grow the kids, and watch
year after year arrive and depart.
He does not think this odd tonight.
He considers this an adventure
walking past the shroud of snow
and onto the glistening stairs
that climb the breast of sky.