December 2023
Brined Streets

A poem on the saltiness of hope

They've brined the streets,
Dusted the face of the asphalt with white.
The frozen wind is whipping, tree canopies tipping,
White brick houses standing steady and ready
for snow.

They've brined the streets,
Pale blue crystals winking at the sun.
The dogs are all indoors, sleeping on the floors,
Paws down in the sun, dreaming begun
Of who knows.

They've brined the streets,
Left the salt to its sanctity.
It drifts here and there, dulling the glare
As I'm looking down, taking in the soft sound
of hope.

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