At the End of the Street Lies the Sky

At the end of the street lies the sky 
dressed in the purple magician’s robe 
of eventide and the winter storm. 
Tonight she sculpts stairs of ice and 
snow. She casts spells upon the laden 
earth and the dying man can hear 
her invitations in the blizzard, in 
dreams that are like all other dreams 
except soundly, deeply, more vividly. 
He leaves while his wife is sleeping. 
He leaves without any good-byes. 
There is no gentle kiss for her lips 
no tousling of the boys’ hair or 
kiss for the daughter with the moon 
shaped face. This is not intentional. 
How could he know the destination 
of this dream? He leaves his house, 
walks down the silent street 
past the rows of barren trees 
that shield the homes of dear 
neighbors who helped round out 
the days, grow the kids, and watch 
year after year arrive and depart. 
He does not think this odd tonight. 
He considers this an adventure 
walking past the shroud of snow 
and onto the glistening stairs 
that climb the breast of sky.