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