Mid-Winter

Mid-Winter

 

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