Christmas in New York

I recall the hurried, determined walk to the subway,
Battlements erected to depersonalize human contact,
Encountering no smiles or warmth,
Wildebeest crossing because that is what they do.

Wardrobes change with the seasons,
The battlefield remains constant.
Herds move because that is what they do.

There is a painting,” The Diner”,
It evokes the aloneness of each patron’s life
Under a harsh light,

Inexorably, the mindless struggle
Pushes us to preordained cubicles
Joyless movement
Doomed, almost to the grand wheel.

When the days are diminished
And darkness weighs,
Something changes
The herd sniffs a half-forgotten scent.

People open from personal cocoons.
Find the day filled with potential,
Move to catch a serpentine engine,
Observe forms of life.

Myth reborn
In lighter imprints of snows remnants,
Faces are seen.
Someone holds a door open.

Enough, more than enough,
To derail cynicism.
Ephemeral, certainly, but real.
We allow for the impossible.