Friday, January 18, 2013


A gray ache, 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 wicks of trees
not tender but delicate, the vision 
overpowers, like the scent of
cinnamon, lavender, leather
catches and keeps,
a pocket of warmth in the ashen skies—
in the grim solitude of mid-winter


Optimistic Existentialist said...

What a BEAUTIFUL This is an amazing blog.

Emily Arnason Casey said...

Thanks, and who are you?

Dezdemona said...

I love this. I hate winter. Thanks for making it better.

Emily Arnason Casey said...

Winter...uhg! I tend to secretly enjoy it...especially the strange ways of weather...