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Yet again approaches that time of year when the quiet meets the cold. |
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They'll shake hands and sit down and sip on dejection reaped from the seeds |
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sown by people like me, I follow, too closely, my own lead. |
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They'll see to it that rivers freeze just like our daily routines. |
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Now, forced from living to surviving, we've never been so awake. |
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Filled with smoke from the stacks of a city buried in haste |
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concerned with ice sheeting the ways to where we need to be. |
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I'll curse them up and down, pacing in refuge I built in the bosom of the warmth. |
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But even she, too, shook her head with the rhythm of my doom. |
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Though I never see her go, I know just when she leaves. |
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I'm kicking through her trail, grinding bitter teeth, |
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chewing over how and why such slain brown stems from yellow; from green. |
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Though I never see her go, I know just when she leaves. |
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Any hint of assurance these stale days could bring, |
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passes by a hopeless, languid head too stubborn to lift and see. |
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To see people like me, who follow too closely their own lead. |
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As she returns, again, this thought leaks from my thawing head |
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that her time away was rather brisk, more so than the previous. |
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And now she's found homes in climates she's never been. |
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The icicles that nailed my coffin of a bed melted long before I noticed |
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I was free to watch the plants bud from the dead. |
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Oh, the parts of life we miss when we're self-condemned. |
