Old Man Winter Blues
He bellows and wails in the background,
percussion crack-rattling panes,
clattering bones of naked branches beyond.
I huddle deeper into blankets, lingering –
listening, awaiting her throaty melody, anticipating
her hot convection – previsioning
smoky contralto toasting toes, steaming windows.
Vaulting from bed into slippers & robe, I bustle,
scatting to the vent,
to savor the sultry bliss of her suspiration –
bathrobe filling, blowing, billowing
with her warm exhalation.
|photo by PSC 1/7/2014|