The Butler Pennsylvania Poems

Winter Afternoon

The sounds of your mills
have reached me at night
and sometimes
I think I hear the steam engines
stomping in the yards
out behind the hill
or whistling like they did
on entering town
at the crossing by the creek—
but never did I see a sky like yours
on waning winter afternoons
when I, a boy of four
found myself ensconced
behind a frosted window
scratching through ice
as I sit there rapt, gazing,
until light had given way
to darkness.

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