Poem: Cold

(Given that the wind chills are at least -35F this morning, it seemed like a good time to post this. Actual update on various things forthcoming.)



Ice on the window,

Smooth and opaque,

With an ice feather headdress.


Snow creaks and squeals.

Exhaust hangs in the air

Like a restless ghost.


Frozen wind blows,

Worms under hats, through scarves,

And into mittens.


Breath comes short, burning,

Eyes water, half closed.

Fingers clench, numb and aching.


Sun rises red into

A sky too blue, too sharp.

Day comes slowly, pale, unforgiving,





(Inspired by a particularly cold morning several years ago, when the wind chill was, as I recall, about -45F and I had to get up and go to school anyway.)

(c) Ethelinda Webb, 2004

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