January 1984

flaming against the sky

tossed about by wind

       like the breath

       on a cold, sub-zero morning

various shades of red

tangle with those of gray

       or is it silver

       on this cold, sub-zero morning

illum’n’ed from without

the mass receives new life

when, escaping from its prison

it shoots against the morning sun

to become a flowing gem

drifting from its tow’r of brick

where once it was confined

A pillar of steam was escaping the

stack at the Domtar plant one morning...