When Hell Freezes Over

There are times, I realize, that bitching about New Hampshire and its winters…can seem redundant.  If I could there would be equal complaints about the ‘hot and steamy’ weather.  But that would only be a lie!  My wife prefers to be cold.  She believes that she can always get ‘warm’.  That is bullshit!  Once you are cold in 30 below weather.  Out on some unbeaten path.  When choosing to take the road not traveled by…and, the wind chill brings frozen tears to your eyes, I say, fuck winter!

Residents of Hell in Michigan have experienced temperatures as low as -26C, according to the National Weather Service.

It comes as northern parts of the US are gripped by a polar vortex.

According to a town Facebook page, they have not had as much snow as during other winters “but we are much colder”.

“Yes, Hell has frozen over,” the page added.

Some residents have been forced to head to an emergency warming centre which also doubles as a saloon.

The cold snap has been felt across a number of northern states, with temperatures reportedly feeling as low as -45C (-49F) with wind chill.

Mother Earth Has Called

The great deceiver?  These platelets of ice…leading me to believe ‘if I’ve stepped there once…I can step there twice!’

In the midst of the fall, hanging vaguely onto drawing myself near to dear.

All I hear is, Mother Earth calling me…

‘I am the the greatest magician of them all.  One will never be able to stand on all that is borrowed.’

Transference of Power

Perplexing, how it is done, shut off one light.

And, a new season has begun.

Brown, no longer, brown…it is everything.

The war of winter and wind pulsing through wooded veins,

Whispers of curses among all that is not public domain.

But in the end, unlike no breathable battle in history.

An auspicious transference of power…ends with only beauty.

Macrame’ of Rancor

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.

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Wearing Layers

In between, the in between season, nothing but scars across the land.

Frozen tundras, neither dark nor light.

Days are distant.

Night lay like ground work, always in sight.

Within uncompromising climates be there no fashion to show.

Just layer upon layer of secluded interludes…

While the wind blows.imageedit__2290727946