Cold and the end of February…

WeatherComplaining about the weather doesn’t change the weather.

Somehow it makes some feel better. Not me. But it’s worth writing about.

Living Here
I hear the pain of tires
running hard on frozen streets,
the crackle of limbs aching,
the bursting howl of
an incessant chill wind,
the absence of songbirds’
singing at discovered seed,
and I wonder how anyone
would live here, like me.

A Cold Spring Day
The wind whistles through decaying frames
slowed by layers of paint hiding rotting pine,
layer on layer, year on year, teasing drafts,
cold against my skin, seeping into bones,
uninvited but expected; a spring sun failing
it’s one and only task of breaking through
winter with a hint of encouraging warmth,
sluicing pharisaic whitewash of season’s tomb
caked on soiled panes lighter in the focused
circles of optic’s tunnel, dust twisting, dancing
haplessly in gusts, then resting meaninglessly
leaving ugly uglier, pained residue of my life
distorting what is already unclear, darkening
the glow of knowledge in the carbon of all’s return,
straining like a sieve the truth about me
into a portrait mirroring imperfectly what
is readily apparent on this cold spring day.

User Errors
What if nothing was the same,
or everything different,
as in, unlike what has always been;
all is new, unexpected,
not just opposite but unalike, like
Heraclitus’s little stream;
surprising as a brother waiting
behind a door to jump
out screaming ‘Boo’ and laughing,
Tuesday is Friday, sometimes,
which would be worth celebrating
but Saturday could be Monday,
cold may be hot or not, birds bark,
salty – sweet, up – down,
we’d be afraid of low places, open air,
wrinkles are sexy
but sexy isn’t, fiction is fake,
history is real,
and user errors are no more;
I could live in a world like that,
once in a while at least.

 

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