Too icy to leave,
weekend in town,
a radio on somewhere,
drowsy, staticky,
non-descript winter, truly
in the thick of it. Each
year it still comes as a surprise.
Transitory states:
is this wet snow,
or cold rain?
And why make distinctions?
Strange dreams this morning,
late to the Christmas party,
searching for a seat.
Today is the day they’ll take
the tree, make a note of it,
the birds in the hedge
by the dryer vent,
singing brightly, incessantly,
in the sweet, warm fog,
like breath, but not,
but again, why shouldn’t it be?
OPTIONAL POETRY 
in the sweet, warm fog,
like breath, but not,
but again, why shouldn’t it be?
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For a minute there I felt like I was in a Thomas Pynchon novel.
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This is gorgeous – subtle rhyme and meter, excellent word choice. It makes me pine for winter.
~Trin
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Thank you, Trinity!
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