The moon lingers in blue sky,
listening to Styrofoam™ squeaking boots
on crispy, cold snow.
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I’m moving through molasses
thinking like my thoughts are spilled ink
too dark to decipher.
Winter weather draws the sky closer,
closeting us in cloud,
so much white is blinding.
Days are short, but oh, so, slow
We are waiting.
The cloud reclines darkly above the lake.
The snow line drops lower.
The cold creeps and seethes.
Inside, bricks channel the chill.
Children vibrate, “It’s coming! It’s coming!”
It’s so hard to sit still and concentrate.
Adults sniffle and cough, mutter, “Soon. Soon.”
They dream of freedom, warmth, of sleeping in.
Christmas holidays can’t come
The air bites.
Our breath smokes
Winter’s long wait is over.