To the Onmyoji

It is on mornings like these that men who do not wish to be seen move openly and quietly to their destiny. Frost dragons curl into cinnamon roll swirls, cold crystals capture the light of remembrance, and the old fox sets his trap, if one is to be sprung, knowing that there are secrets that give power to this distracted darkness and that there is a desperate hope in this crevice of time. The sky is a twirling of anthracite. The ground sparkles like glass dust and each breath freezes into a circle of fine silk that wafts to rest covering Cimmerian footsteps with warm regret. It is better to be sleeping on a hard palette in a restless child’s room . . . better to be awake, trying to interpret the disturbing dreams of Christmas Eve . . . better to be a drunken poet; blissful, broken, unconscious, trapped in practiced ritual to the onmyoji . . .