Flakes

By Martin Breul

Descending souls sprinkle upon
inner city night, flow through traffic
light shimmer that reflects red and gold on
asphalt watered by melting snow. Smeared reflections
of laughter and music behind
wide windows, life again
after the cold and the distance
glamourous zoetropes.

In the streets
winter no longer bites, though
thick flakes linger mid-air on their
inevitable way down, garnishing
instead this very moment.
This moment only.

Martin Breul currently lives and writes in Montréal. He likes coffee, tea, books. His works of poetry and flash fiction have appeared in print and online in Wet Grain, The Wild Word, Acta Victoriana, Variety Pack, and others. In 2021 he won the Mona Elaine Adilman Prize for his eco-poetry and in 2022 he was nominated for Best of the Net. You can follow him on Twitter @BreulMartin