Cold

it’s not the season

the occluded fronts

the barometrical pressures

it’s not the helpless sad sun obscured by the sooty midday murk

the spiteful arctic sting carried by the weak unsuspecting breeze

the frozen-rooted grass aching to fall the forever green tree

it’s not the bare feet upon the stone tiled floor

the rude awakening in the ambient chilled bath

the blanket lost to the frigid midnight moon

it’s not those

or anything

it’s just me

I’m cold

cold

Filed under: Poetry Tagged: cold, poems, poetry, writing