January Alley (for my dad on his 59th)

A potato moon hangs low over the horizon,
the roads are a paste of sand and old snow.
Quiet passing lawns glow white in the dusk
as the little black car rumbles through the evening.
No lights on the island, black trees reflected
in the navy glass of the water.
The little house is nestled under dark trees,
the white shapes of submerged wheelbarrows,
rakes, and bicycles dot the front yard.
A gust of ice and woodsmoke fills the nose.
The windows paint squares of yellow light on the snow.
A cat twists about your ankles as you step out,
pumpkin colored even in the dusk,
his nose dark with the cold.
He follows you as you climb the icy steps
and open the stubborn red door into warmth.