Snowy
day on the plains. Ensconced in winter-fat,
i wallow in the warmth of the fire.
A cup of chicory coffee fits snugly in
my hands,
cupped for comfort after suffering the
insult of a north wind
assaulting the woodpile on the porch.
First snow brings a sense of nostalgia
to the buds of memory,
rare white stacked inches deep
on hometown ramparts in southern
France.
My cape open to the elements.
and me,
sliding and running on the crunchy
sidewalks,
mute and numb from bitter biting breeze
stirring the fluff.
I have pictures of snows past.
I have cave-woman moments about the
wonder of skies
and the event that flies.
Ephemeral moods of uncertain weather,
turned headline news on the local
paper.
In my here and now, conditions taint
the precarious situation.
Cold aggravates ills and pains,
finances bleak on the plains.
So, transient worries ride the
magnificent snow flurries.
This is not a poem about global warming
or finance washing.
This is the tactile connection with the
changing of season.
The taste of sweetness against a
melancholy bitterness.
This is just me, enjoying an everyday,
a today,
a wonderful cold day of contrast.
