Winter Weight

And the cold settles in like death.
Everything is still and gray
until the breeze gusts in spurts--
almost an afterthought. Leaves
and snow swirl about.

Icicles hang, ghostly appendages
bending limbs to their breaking
points. Trees are haggard
from dead weight- wobbling
in the wind.

Winter has buried us. It’s dirty
and bulky, an old white sweater two
sizes too big that hangs on the city.
Bunching up in the alleyways,
the gutters, on the streets.

Overcast skies suffocate. The sun
trolls for a place to flicker through,
its hazy glow smolders behind
the clouds stratum. No warmth
permeates their depth.
　
　
　
　
　
　

A Different Perspective

Grateful for steam that rises,
I inhale dark roasted brew
and cream like a drug.

I bury my feet in impossibly thick socks
and swim in soft flannel, fabric that’s replaced
the silk and satin of youth.

Sun glances through the pines, plays hopscotch
in the backyard. I watch it jump, a child seeing
fireworks for the first time.

I hear the trills of birds echoing through the trees.
Even though their chirrups are a foreign language,
I’m enchanted.

The dog sleeps peacefully at my feet, chest barely
rising and falling. I’m awed that she surrenders
with one rub on her belly.

I look through different eyes in the autumn
of my life. Savoring the sweet, sunbeams pierce
my window like flaming arrows.