“Maybe, It’s Cold Outside”

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“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.

“Forsythia?”

“Sprung” © C.P. Hickey 2018

 

 

“Forsythia?”

 

Forsythia?

Forced into view.

Forced into you,

existence through,

budding branches reaching up into the sky.

 

Growing up,

past failed forecasts of blizzards.

Weather wizards.

Meteorologists ceding to botanists.

Seeding pots with this,

packet potential.

 

Weeding rows of ebbing snow,

a hedgerow garden grow,

Ineffable nature.

Permission to engage,

green thumb sage,

but, barometric gauge,

indicates bare landscapes.

 

No escape.

 

Planet raped.

Big mistake.

Heightened stakes.

Corporate snakes.

Only take,

never plant.

 

Planned exhaust.

 

All is lost?

 

Forsythia?

 

Forsythia!