Conrad Hilberry

Let midnight gather up the wind and the cry of tires on bitter snow. Let midnight call the cold dogs home, sleet in their fur—last one can blow the streetlights out.   If children sleep after the day’s unfoldings, the wheel of gifts and griefs, may their breathing ease the strange hollowness we feel. Let midnight draw whoever’s left to the grate where a burnt-out log unrolls low mutterings of smoke until a small fire wakes in its crib of coals.