Cluster beneath a bakery’s awning,
White sheets between them and dawn frost,
By mothers last night,
Mothers returned from the fields –
The broccoli, the spinach.
Angels’ shoulders touch
In hopes of sharing warmth.
Round as yesterday’s doughnut ghosts,
Catch starlight sparks –
A glimpse of heaven,
Though an hour of shivers remains
Until the parade’s first step.
by Robert Walton