On Not Being Able to View the Jupiter-Saturn Conjunction

At least I had legs to carry me down
Two flights of stairs and outside,
Most of the way to the waterfront.
I walked as far as the sidewalk was shoveled,
To the underpass where I could see the garish mural
Of psychedelicized flowers and read the trite affirmations
That still managed to be a comfort to this cynic.
At least I could see a crescent moon on its descent,
Wrapped in downy gathering clouds.
At least I could smell winter in the last dregs of fall,
In home fireplaces, in the kitchen
Of the local old-school Italian restaurant
Open for business, surviving the pandemic.
Tomorrow it will snow again;
Monday it will be overcast.
So most likely, I will miss viewing
This once-in-800-years event,
This Star of Bethlehem.
But I am not downcast—I have already had
My Christmas miracle:
I got out of the city with my sweetie,
Lock stock barrel, the whole kitten caboodle,
To a smaller city with more space
Both inside and out.
I do not pass a single soul on my walk
And feel blessed as I breathe in the cold, clean air,
Noting how some upended chunks of snow
Resemble tiny gravestones in the dusk
And feel graced when I slip on an icy patch
And recover my balance.