One Morning in Brooklyn
The snow is falling in three directions at once against the sienna brick of
the houses across,
but the storm is mild, the light even, the erratic wind not harsh, and,
tolling ten o’clock,
the usually undistinguished bells of the Sixth Street cathedral assume an
remarking with ponderous self-consciousness the holy singularities of
this now uncommon day.
How much the pleasant sense, in our sheltering rooms, of warmth, enclosure:
an idle, languid taking in,
with almost Georgian ease, voluptuous, reposeful, including titillations
of the sin of well-being,
the gentle adolescent tempest, which still can’t make up its mind quite,
can’t dig in and bite,
everything for show, flailing with a furious but futile animation wisps of
white across the white.
~ C. K. Wilams
They Call This
A young mother on a motor scooter stopped at a traffic light, her little son perched on the ledge between her legs; she in a gleaming helmet, he in a replica of it, smaller, but the same color and just as shiny. His visor is swung shut, hers is open.
As I pull up beside them on my bike, the mother
is leaning over to embrace the child, whispering something in his ear, and I’m shaken, truly shaken, by the wish, the need, to have those slim strong arms contain me in their sanctuary of affection.
Though they call this regression, though that
implies a going back to some other state and this has never left me, this fundamental pang of being too soon torn from a bliss that promises more bliss, no matter that the scooter’s fenders are dented, nor that as it idles it pops, clears its throat, growls.
~ C. K. Williams