Winter’s Day …
The sound of winter pervades the land
and sky, so used to grey pales to a single hue,
lost from blue and endless,
as the chill picks up to ice and snow
and bones ache with its fierce discourtesy.
Rushing winds rattle all that’s standing,
clatter all the shutters and doors so battered,
as rain and sleet accost the streets
and not a souls dares to go outside,
layered clothes and hats provide, little.
Even fires pale in rooms like freezers,
hands upon their flames the only respite,
until the pain reminds us of our flesh;
and windows rattle like old trains,
while pockets full of hands try to ease the pain.
This day is bleak, the coldest yet,
and there is no relief in sight,
and torrents in undulations writhe,
pounding streets then whispers discreet,
and never does it stop.
I sit inside, warmth barely a possibility,
as nature’s gnarled hands grasp our lives,
and shake us to our very core,
while howling echoes outside ensue,
as if the pain is voicing discontent.
Day is set and there’s nothing we can do.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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