Arctic Day in the City
Some punished spirit of the air hangs here,
Mute, in the cold. I, like an Eskimo,
On my own Brooklyn street, stand still and watch, Hoping this ghost-animal will speak, And I, listening. will hear it and guess its nature.
Its presence, huge among the trees, leans down From the grey sky arched over its backbone, And searches in the street, down icy twigs And heavy branches, through the cold air. For what, For what? The cold orange sunset sinks in the grey harbour, lighting the soft brick Of the houses, and the grey of the trees Is winter-red, for moments. Derricks and roofs Of piers, fence railings and hunched vehicles In the street glow and turn cold again.
Now I feel something stir in me and shiver In my own warmth, my house. Freezing, I long.
For some figure on the street, some moving thing, A dog frisking around the corner, a child Ina snowsuit, a man in scarf and coat, To come between me and the hovering cold, The ghost whose searching face I cannot see.
DOROTHY GILDERT
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