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.
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.