Watching through
a frosted pane of glass.
Red against white
and the
bleakness of an
icicled sliced street;
where passers-by huddle against
winters howling song.
Their cold breath
carries them away,
then the street is still,
like this life; like the weather;
like tomorrow.

The world has been frozen
for such a long time.
No warmth from
the pale January sun.

Only the soft glow
of summers warm girls
keep the
evergreen, heavy with snow,
at bay.
That, and the lake,
blue and wet to the lips,
the red lips of summer’s delight.

This winter has the
smell of over-ripe mangos.
A pungent, sickly affair,
where the fruit
still holds firm with
its skin of red and yellow.

And this room is
warmed by the ash
of a full moon.
Outside a lone sparrow
leaves its tracks in the snow
and disappears
as if in flight.
That’s what misery is.
It’s like a tiger or lion
ready to spring.