The Color of Absence
by Michael B Conway aka The Mutt
The white of a newborn snowís an illusion;
winterís true colorís the dead gray of smoke,
in ominous plumes over black ice on highways,
of cigarette nights spent in longingís cold bed.
The pale white of winterís the color of absence;
a bone white square on a dingy gray wall,
a diaryís page on her desk by my window,
the white of her lips where red kisses once played.
The yearís longest night heralds winterís arrival;
the sun flees in tears from her frost-covered grave,
the moon veils its sorrow in clouds thick as woodsmoke,
as red embers fade to the still gray of ashes
and snow palls the earth in a shroud of white linen
and turns hearts to marble, cold-blooded as thieves.