When the Sun Goes Down in Winter

BY AMANDA DZIMIANSKI

I step beyond the threshold 

into stretched out shadows

and I’m sorry

I can’t rewind

to the young light.

I feel the bitter bite of the shade,

see the slant of the sun

along the iced roof angle,

catch it glancing on the curved 

gooseneck of the streetlamp.

There’s a crystal crunch under my soles

and I want caution tape

stuck across my fragile moments,

criss-crossing them in some safe

embrace of satisfaction guaranteed. 

Still street becomes glass time capsule,

collecting all of us

in a clustered solitude,

in a tense-present breath-holding,

lighting candles against the cold.

I tread a tunnel hemmed by clock tick and place,

the minutes marking the march of a relentless sun 

warring toward the sill of the sky

just to disappear 

and drench us in the dark.

I’ve read the words 

about the gentle twilight goddess 

kindly enclosing the world in her cloak.

But I know it’s Night that’s coming on

and her coat is heavy.

There’s an ache in my chest 

for where I’ve never been

and have always been.

I’m frozen in this moment

finding everything is thin.

response to Frozen Street by Colin Page

Amanda Dzimianski (zhuh-MAN-skee) is a writing coach, an entry-level poet, and a human learning how to be. A lifelong writer, she lives near Athens, Georgia with her partner David and two young sons.