still stung by winter's cold
i wander, doing things
that do not matter
feeding things
that aren't hungry
touching things
that i can't feel.
still stung
my frost tipped fingers
cold and gloveless
shrink from fumes
and steering wheels
still stung by winter's cold
tracing dreams of flowers
peddled hope in paper packets
i comply and buy
seeds
instead of firewood.
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1 comment:
I love this poem. I can't wait until the seed catalogs come out in January.
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