wednesday, march 17

carolann writes a poem

hoar frost clinging to last life beneath
dawn-brushed silver sky, we look
from these well-trod discontented drifts
as though morning would alleviate
need — to build a fire,
splintered wood scraping abused leather gloves,
numb hands fumbling the match,
smoke and ash and blinking coals,
and this is life — the cracking
and bleeding of your calloused hands
exposed to that dry cold.

raw wind and the sight of frost in morning
steals my breath away.