wicked cold evening
it’s mid November
and a cold drive home . . .
i’m surrounded by evidence
of progress and infrastructure
in the asphalt serpent that i travel on . . .
the bridges of iron and concrete
that span a winding river . . .
the steel and glass monoliths
that stretch skyward
above a sprawling city . . .
as i snake past
the coldness of concrete and steel
i’m drawn into the perceived warmth
of a rose colored sunset . . .
a blanket of soft pinks and blues
pulled up against a western sky
i rumble across the river
on a double decker bridge
leaving one city behind
and entering another . . .
i am a child of nature
a woodland soul, as my name implies . . .
a lover of the earth
and all things celestial . . .
now rooted in an urban jungle . . .
as i turn down market street
past the tall inner-city structures . . .
there before me . . .
low on the eastern horizon . . .
hovers a full “beaver” moon . . .
bright and bold against the blue black sky
my mind is flooded with memories
of another beaver moon now three years past . . .
and memories of someone
who is as distant as the moon itself
on this wicked cold evening
by Sylvia L. Mattingly
November 23, 2019
Crooked Creek by Sue Mattingly 