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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2072176
Musing on a January day.
This January day is dim gray umbrella horizon
to horizon; white flakes flutter en massé in swirl
to rooftop, road, to gnarled limbs left bare by fall.
A splash of sun then soaks the sky, yet overcast gray
canopy imbibes the light as if so parched, as if sky’s lips
crack beyond chap and Heaven’s throat in soreness cries.

It’s maw above, and so the season feeds said firmament
heat stored from the crust, from the inner bowels of
Earth to sate this yen of atmosphere, this growl
of gut on high that worries not of poisons, no
not of any ague or salmonella, nor random
parasite nor any bane of ill unleashed
by human beings. 

Surely winter’s day shall thrive, and we will read it like
novella, like the pulp of fiction past as radiation from
life’s star succumbs to veil spread vast on high.  And
surely we will gaze through picture windows at the
scene, and marvel once again as she applies her
metamorphic spin.

In decades past I would be want to gather snowflakes
on my tongue, or spin with stocking hat and scarf
within the wind engaging now as gust.  Yet now,
there’s comfort on the carpet, and pampering
the football game to me.  Plus January owns
my joints, and muscles are mere mozzarella.

25 Lines
Writer’s Cramp


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