We called in sick to work, and walked
The French Quarter banquettes instead,
The sunless winter sky pregnant
With moisture, clouds engorged and grayed
With frigid water -- a New Orleans
December day, cold enough to snow,
And gray enough, and yet it was
Near certain that it wouldn't. We went
Together to the river front
And watched the wind labor against
The River current, waves stood up on end
Between the forces of water and air
Like Claras in so many Nutcrackers
Now playing everywhere these days.
Our hands together, we forsook
The wind, walking up St. Ann's Street
Past the cafe, past the Cathedral,
Drawn on by trains of golden lights
Red bows, drooped garland greens, and pairs
Wandering like us, without purpose.
The cold, the humid cold, the wind
Struck at our cheeks through cross streets.
Each moment the gray sky loomed as if
About to burst, but it did not.
As if an age were near its end,
Another to begin, but the sky
Had not made up its mind just yet.
We took Royal Street to its end, and turned
Into a restaurant suffused with life.
The waiter led us to a window table
Frosted by the humans breathing,
And steamed potatoes. I felt the cold
That streamed off the window on my neck
As I removed my woolen coat,
And turned and sat, my back to it.
You asked for french fries, but they
Did not demean potatoes there,
And so you asked if they would please
Demean an onion ring? They would.
"New Year's," I say, " is the Millennium."
"I thought that was last year," you said.
"No, Jesus was born in A.D. one;
This marks two thousand years."
"Oh," you said, "I didn't know that.
"But you said Christ's birth was 4 B.C."
Oh yes, the monks could make mistakes.
There is no telling when one age
Has ended and the next begun.
Later, we went back out. The sky
Had still held back its moisture, though
The damp was everywhere. A few
Free radicals of brown hair broke
From under your scarf and played
In the air. It is all heat effect, I thought --
All wind, even cold, is driven by warmth.
In this old part of town, an antique
That has seen its day and waits
To birth a new one, we walked.
Two hours past noon the church bells
Rang in the rues, to mark the time
That passed since Jesus wound the clock.
The windborne sound waves rippled over
The Styrofoam cups and scattered beads
From Marti Gras parties* in the gutters.
We sleepily went, then, you and I,
Back to our warm, newlywed home,
And dreamt of this our now, leaving
The mystery posed by Christmas night,
An image of a sleeping child,
To dreamlessly care for itself.
* Though Mardi Gras is a spring holiday, tourists frequently throw Mardi Gras beads around in the French Quarter of New Orleans year-round.