Mid-Winter Revisted

A gray hollow, the color of fog hanging

over the tundra of the mountain,

wrests from my body a loneliness

 

through and through.

 

The fast moving clouds,

tributaries of blue leaking out—

wrong colored.

 

January thaw, the wet rain and nothing to speak of,

dirty snow and the pigeons marching, marching.

There again the unlit wicks of trees scaling the sky—

 

the vision  overpowers, like the scent of  

cinnamon, lavender, leather

catches and keeps,

 

a window through the ashen skies—

I too want to stand nude, yet burning,

waiting for rapture.