I am looking for a barefoot intervention but the snow between my toes tells me,
that is not how this story goes.
To dream of warmth only makes me weak.
Screaming tree tops warn,
“This life is not for the meek.
Within the northern confinement…little room for shadows of doubt.”
Spring has become a prohibition era ghost.
Over imbibing one minute.
The next…an ungracious host.
Spring has started as a thug.
Full of bluster and ‘what for.’
A dire Macrame’ of rancor on distant tropical shore.
A scent of warmth fills the air.
Yet, being mid January, this toying game…
appears cruel and unfair.
Unsullied water, forgotten berry and mulch…
Apprehend such a brief snippet of time.
And, the long-awaited spring never remains…for long,
on the mind.
Without pride the first of snow arrives.
And, for the briefest of moments…
Clowning of cows
disrespecting a hard frost with their snowy beds.
Somewhere a cornstalk, brazen and brown.
Not quite ready to give in.
With a walking stick made for greener days.
I, too, bed down with primitive sin.
Until the land perpetuates…
These dreary days that tell a tale.
Damp as, a kitten stuck in the rain.
Familiar as, a footstep that corrodes a foreboded path.
A sign: closed-down, living in the aftermath.
I have saturated myself with good times and bad.
Forlorn and fitful.
With only placating dampness…
Still, the sign, closed-down…
Living in the aftermath.