Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 12 . . .
 

My Last Ride through a Snowy Night

     by Luke Evans



I saw you in the trees tonight,
in the ice-coated branches hanging like chandeliers;
you shone and smiled and waved at me,
and my heart feathered on a snowflake
as I waved back at you.
I would have gone to you,
but the sleigh carried on and all I could see
were shimmering twigs.


I saw you in the air tonight,
in a powdery cyclone beside the sleigh;
the speckles swirled in your shivered face
as you confused a frown into a smile.
I called out so you would know,
and I would have gone to you,
but the whirlwind subsided and your image eroded
like a sculpture of dust.


I saw you in the snow tonight,
in the tamped bedding of a deer;
your cheeks were ruby-swelled and channeled
with rivulets of ice as your hand slowly raised.
I extended my mittens to thaw your cheeks,
and I would have gone to you,
but the sleigh trampled the bedding, and on looking back,
all was lost in the wake of our passing.


I saw you in the clouds tonight,
in the muted whiteness and plumes;
but you turned your face from me
and let your hair purl in the wind.
I longed to gather and caress it and bundle it up,
and I would have gone to you,
but the wind wisped you away and the unshaded moon glared
through the mist in your eyes.


I saw you in the river tonight,
in the frigid water tumbling over ice and rocks;
your face was pale, your ears, nose, lips
so blue in the ripples and crashes.
I longed to warm them against my chest,
and I would have gone to you,
but we crossed the bridge as you frosted and splintered,
and its echo tailed me all the way home.


I saw you in the mirror tonight,
standing in the shadows of the cabin’s logs;
you cried at first, and then you waved;
not hello, but goodbye.
I flooded my cheeks and pled with the haze of your face,
and I would have gone to you,
but on turning around, all I saw were cold, dark logs,
with only my scarf left to hug me.










Luke Evans lives in Maryland as a water specialist by day and a masked writer by night. Sometimes those writings are poetry, and they can be found at Contrary, The Delmarva Review, American Drivel Review, and forthcoming at Etchings. Don't blow his cover.

© 2009 Luke Evans