Temperature below zero
novelty for a town not used
to minuses. I contemplate
winter, summer living
in these hills rain-kissed
summer-washed with plums and cherries. But in this cold as the media rants about the cold wave
my blanket of warmth are the peopled roads, mystique of warmth, caps, mufflers and layers of woolens. In rasping tones we admonish cold and winter.
Living has a strange music, a rhythm. In seasonal whirlpools we
stuntedly grow.
