Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Like a Nudist in Winter

Like a nudist in winter,
she’s cold.

Like a Chicago February,
she’s icy.

Like a meat locker,
she’s frozen.

Like a 19th century arctic explorer,
she’s chilled to the bone.

The cold got in, deep and fast,
freezing and arresting the things that
used to be.

New snowy caverns opened,
new abominables arrived.
New snow paths made,
old ones collapsed under
the weighty ice.

The chilly fury,
the icy veins,
the unrelenting cold wind
of long frozen anger.

Like a nudist in winter,
she’s shivering.

Ever so slightly.

You can see her gooseflesh.

Her lips are a little blue.

She’s cold, but she won’t
let on.

I can’t warm her,
but there is a small fire,
if needed.

No comments:

Post a Comment