“Maybe, It’s Cold Outside”
The horror of a dark breeze brings me low.
Waiting hard for mobile warmth to arrive.
Huddled in an exposed hovel.
Definitive shivers adorn my epidermis in spasmodic waves.
Measuring my plastic constitution.
Pushing me toward downward despair.
Deeply swirling through me, into the hardened earth.
Breathing breaths of strain and clean.
Affixed to bitter red-wrinkled, beard strewn cheekies.
Winter doesn’t happen up around you, it directly happens to you.
It is a kinetic seasonal sin; forever changing the life it disturbs.
Forced into view.
Forced into you,
budding branches reaching up into the sky.
past failed forecasts of blizzards.
Meteorologists ceding to botanists.
Seeding pots with this,
Weeding rows of ebbing snow,
a hedgerow garden grow,
Permission to engage,
green thumb sage,
but, barometric gauge,
indicates bare landscapes.
All is lost?