Metal

Metal

A steelmill town, a ridge of pine,
The taste of snow upon the tongue,
Meant all the world was black and
white
At Christmastime when he was
young.

In softened angle, muted line,
The harshnesses became oblique.
The keening lathes were pacified:
All quiet on the frozen creek.

And it was Christmas when he died
Far off, no place on earth to go,
But fresh as in his childhood came
The scent of metal and of snow.