Mission Street, December by William Taylor Jr.

The soft light of the winter evening
brings a heavy sadness that pushes
the heart

strange clouds gather and the air
smells of coming rain

I wander Mission Street sidewalks
in no hurry to be anywhere

still haunted by the pretty dream
of being something more than death

maintaining my belief
in common miracles

even now determined
to salvage scraps of  joy
from the rubble of  life

scattered bits of kindness
like leaves on the sidewalk
not yet trampled

remnants of abandoned beauty
line the streets like gilded
flakes of gold

I put them in my pockets
to carry home

walking quickly now
as soon the rain will fall

like my tears
like my tears
like my tears.

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