the Skin of Frost

There is an act of self preservation in the first snow.

The way it comes, harsh and plentiful.

The way it goes, minus song and repose.

I had begun to think these times were not for me.

Melted moments of yesteryear’s atrocities.

Now I ponder upon granite stone.

Blowing in the wind of unknown.

To never find kindness in the bitter and caressing skin of frost.

Will be just another loss.

A Truthful North

Winter is clattering at the back door.

Long worrisome hours of night falling on the skin.

Yet,

hold still.

Love is not lost.

Up on geriatric pallets.

Made of used nails and scraps of tin.

The world we know,

inhabited with dark necessities.

A truthful love.

A truthful north.

Knows no pity.

Stark is the Comfort

And, thus the solitary season begins.

Stone cold silence from a white out.

Oddly enough…there is comfort with no history.

As the days grow more and more diminished…

And, the lights go out…imageedit_3_9068559963

Less and less the need for pretense.

Connoisseur of Cold

With enough imagination and time.eclectic-5

With enough imagination and time.

I have become a connoisseur of the cold.

The repetition.

The constant need for destination.

Peculiar manners in which aged snow becomes youthful.

I feel lost in thought.

Amid the quiet hum of winter’s animal.

Both being satisfying and dismal.

 

a New Hampshire Kind of Cold

When the trees talk like a playground of little children…

It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.imageedit_120_5650719992

When an already graying muzzle looks like a pile of powdered sugar…

It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.

When the earth moves below sedentary feet…

It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.

When the bark is pulled from the birch…

It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.

For such a small state of consciousness.

It takes a large dose of skepticism.

And, more than a pinch of foolishly bold…

To walk within, a New Hampshire kind of cold.