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
Not me
Not really
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 peg
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment