The Coming
We are waiting for winter.
We adore autumn but we
all know its but a twinkling.
It only takes one black night
of plummeting temperatures
and raging winds and the colors
will all fall down.
Ashes, ashes.
Then the winter comes.
We are biologically beholden
to this brute force. We get competitive,
stacking up whatever it is
that we believe will carry us through the white days. Wood. Meat. Sex. Memories. God.
Later we will burn through it all, praying the heat will preserve us for we are small and of little account and winter takes a toll.
that we believe will carry us through the white days. Wood. Meat. Sex. Memories. God.
Later we will burn through it all, praying the heat will preserve us for we are small and of little account and winter takes a toll.
We miis Colorado until November, we ate some muscadines right off the vine this week in youre honor, and will enjoy the extended fall away down south,oh native arkie
Just sitting here, nodding.
This is it exactly. You captured the creeping ominous anxious gnawing in my ancestral-driven gut. Stack it up!
::shiver::
I live in the coldest province in Canada (Manitoba) and I totally relate! I often dread winter too, but there is something about those long dark nights of dreamy introspection and cocooning with the one I love. Winter hibernation makes the other three seasons all the sweeter.
and heaps of spaghetti
I like winter–the way it burns everything down to the basics. But your poem gave me another perspective on it, one worth pondering.
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