When Twilight Hits The Ground

The rickety steps, pass underneath,

in a struggling rotation uphill,

over rails and nails unevenly sticking out of the rock frost.

The sun overhead, distant as if swaying in an unachievable capsule,

whose warmth will not trickle down.

This is how cold it is. The nipping cold of winter

breaks through the train doors.

The air is almost blue, and a chrysoprase luminance

sinks and shines in the thin layer of snow,

it has swallowed the sky.

The earth becomes the air as twilight hits the ground

and for an instant the city is upside down,

the moment sways in an intimate uncertainty,

the silence and the frozen air; pervasive, as never before,

pushing back the breaths of stagnant passengers,

huddled in warm lumps,

awaiting the moment, half in dread, half in a comfortable curiosity,

that they may leave, go home,

wondering when the cold clawed fingers will finally reach out to them

and enter through their mouths in a fatal rush.