There’s little romance in January with
below zero nights
stress of a quiet storm.
Holiday decorations smashed flat
frozen, up against houses
Til some epiphany of spring
no words rhyme in silent
prairie wind hangs in the air
a shadow putting a voice to paper
paints the field while bending the grass.
Each breath a grainy gasp like reeds with broken ribs.
The sound of tearing out a leaf and tossing it aside
With skies peculiar shade of a colorless bruise
And the 3 pm sunset haze,
The forecasters’ promise of 32° does not come,
As January turns.
The dog’s ruff grows over his collar
I can find it no more than my footing
On polished glass
Christmas snow still piled 3 feet deep
behind the feed and grain store
makes the odd sort of old joints squeak
even with steel studded boots
On crusted glacier drifts
alternating with soft powder
I plunge through every footfall
walking is precarious at best.
A Clumsy metaphor for life this is
The sound of each step further away from where we’ve been.
I’m colder inside than outside
warm hands, frozen heart.
Thanks to D.