Dazzle Of Silver

The weak, slanting sunlight
of midday does not carry enough heat
for us to shrug off overcoats
nor to put a blush on this pale season.
Seemingly transparent as
strained broth, tepid as a forgotten cup
of half-drunk morning tea,
after all the miles of desolate space
traversed in eight minutes,
who can hold it responsible if here at
the journey’s final mile
its imparted warmth fails to soften
a north wind’s brusk sting.
Spending its meager fortune upon
a frostbitten landscape
unimpressed by its horde of silver,
the transaction still dazzles
and blinds when distant tin roofs
blaze like a summer day.

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