Thursday, January 05, 2017

It is cold

In its dormancy
the street receives its icing
and a single candle lights the sky.
The birds are quiet,
fluffed in plumped up feathers
too cold for morning anthems,
too early for birding the worms
in their iron-earthed tunnels.
It is cold.

It is cold.
Yet, crisp with promise,
the ascending sun
newborn and uncrying
arcs the horizon.
Trees will begin to loose their white beards,
lawns their frosting,
and beds decamp their cocooned
for morning ablutions.
It is cold.

It is cold.
Cold tests the fingers
as a chorus of windscreen scrapers
provide percussion
in the testament to daylight:
the morning dawning soundtrack
scratching hip-hop
music of winter.

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