The first flurries are falling,
In the dark of morning,
I reached into my shadow closet
and plucked my wool sweater,
the old one, with snowflakes.
It itches my skin,
even over my clericals.
But it will keep me warm.
Old churches are cold places.
It’s as if the foundation stones hold
all bitter memories
keeping them preserved and chilly.
I feel their icy breath on days like these,
their memory of what is forgotten,
of the dead and their displaced city.