This lamp does not belong in summer. It is a winter lamp,
with its twin in the window, its echo in the bone-cold wood.
Summer lamps, they all gleam yellow.
This lamp was not made for lemon light --
for damp porch swings, blue-bluster nights like glass --
It cannot rival the fireflies.
This winter lamp, it sighs – it scrapes – it pounds – it singes
the ice-marble-air. It does not dare to quicken to being,
only to soothe and soften,
throw gossamer sheets over still and beaten forms