Sitting on a rock in the cold sun.
The wind comes up from the sparkling river and whispers of a future spring.
There is yet a core of warmth in the twisting wind, a hope of dog starred August days.
Winter has for a moment lost the thread,
Lady frost is searching for clear moonlight, for razor pinpoints of light on hoarfrost frozen fields.
Now in the midst of dreary winter, while the hills wear their white mantles, I sense a withering of will, and a drying up of muscle. When buds burst into leaves, I also break out in motion, powering against the rusted pedals, to rush down that path of leaves; rustling. .
Wintry winds tear at my coat, seek to reach my guarded soul, And follow me into my bungalow to snuff out my little flame. When Summer, oh summer, comes, I shall ride the streets of sun, catch the warm rays upon my back, spreading a glow through my winter shrunken frame.
Warren: 8:00am, a photo by Ezra Hilyer on Flickr.
Walking to work this morning was like scratching a blackboard with every step, the snow screeching under my feet, and chills running up my spine.
The temperature is well below zero, and the river is swimming with shards of ice-pack.
Yet as I crossed the bridge, I saw a small duck take flight from the rime and dark.
One small spark of life amid the cold.