I am warm.
It is cold.
Outside there the enemy.
I see it in the snow on the ground,
the gray filter of overcast
a blanket blue of varying hue,
crisp like celery,
ice breaking, snapping somewhere.
I am warm and wonder
what inherited guilt is mine,
like winter cold should rule
no molecule bound or slowed.
It is the season circle some progenitors knew
But for my morning trip to car and from car
(jingle key and shiver select)
evenings out is all I know
to reverse what trail I made,
brief commute before commute
where cold's erased by walls of metal and glass again,
From cold I am separate
one step in a chain of dominos,
aloof and unwary come winter month January,
the Cold is just one side of the window
as unfazed as I perhaps.
It is what it is when sun's angle is such.
It will remain when these walls crumble,
when all barriers go.
Would that I would be.