This December
by Lyn Lifshin

it's almost 70
after dark.
I stop by the pond
instead of
shivering back.
Shapes in clumps
like tumbleweeds
of feathers
floating on
some prairie,
the moon in haze
dazzling as
pale teeth of cats.
Silver light, a
blaze of willow.
Lights from the
metro, rhinestones
thru trees,
branches of stars


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