St. Michael's Bells
I sleep in frail sheets
of noiseless white
glazing a flaked pattern
on the windows,
their perimeters of moon
light a flurry of shadows
on the bed. I wake hourly
for St. Michael's bells
tolling the depth of snow
then cozy down in feathers
warm pillowed with one
ear welcoming the lull
of chained tires crunching
through the growing drifts.
Muffled cars and drivers
plow paths down Hope Street
dreaming of sleighs and horses
beneath the blanketed bells
telling me He watches.
I sleep in frail sheets
of noiseless white
glazing a flaked pattern
on the windows,
their perimeters of moon
light a flurry of shadows
on the bed. I wake hourly
for St. Michael's bells
tolling the depth of snow
then cozy down in feathers
warm pillowed with one
ear welcoming the lull
of chained tires crunching
through the growing drifts.
Muffled cars and drivers
plow paths down Hope Street
dreaming of sleighs and horses
beneath the blanketed bells
telling me He watches.