At both sides of a river
Moonlight spills, warm, like the glass of water,
before bed, onto the dimming lights of town
mice scurry out, into the cool stone pavement of the town square
searching for food. In the trees, hidden in the branches, crickets sing, their notes,
lingering for hours in the air
as the Christmas bells ring, right at twelve
the snowflakes come from the sky.
Children lit their candles,
watching
waiting
for Christmas Eve to come.
Across the river
Moonlight spills, piercing cold, yet comforting and familiar –
like Christmas had always been.
Snow.
It settles on the scarves of the audience
It settles on the ends of tiny, decorated pine cones at the entrance of hotels
It settles on the freshly baked gingerbread as the customers rush out of the building,
melting, at the touch of hot frosting- no time to let the bread cool.
It settles, refracting the neon glow of skyscrapers
At both sides of a river.
