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 19^th 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,

flickering,

if needed.