Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
The Wind Blows Cold
The wind blows -
snow devils dancing in the fields;
white plumes rise off of snow banks,
miniature volcanoes.
Crooked fingers creep from fields,
boney fingers white.
Snow snakes slither, they levitate
across the road,
but you can't catch them.
Reach out to find a fistful
of wet flakes and bitter north-west wind.
The sun filters pale through grey,
a dull orange orb suspended and obscure.
When the skies clear, the temperature drops.
Sun glares, ice melt into water stops
its steady dribble, slowing
to a hesitant trickle.
Snow crunches, moving metal squeaks,
and nostrils tingle bitter.
The frozen forest sways and creaks;
loudly creaks like leather.
© wolfman
January 3, 2008
