A poem
It’s been a post-apocalyptic winter around here,
the sun smothered by ash-gray rags sodden with snow,
the snow wrung out on our heads by the bony hands
of Arctic winds. Some ancient ice god wants us dead,
judging by the icy daggers he hangs around our houses.
At night, he presses his face against the black windows
and claws at our blankets with his frostbit hands;
if he can’t have us dead, he’ll bury us alive,
throwing a white pall over everything that breathes.
Even so, this morning I woke and went walking
along the icy shore — warm blood beating,
warm breath freezing in great clouds
rising — white, wind-shredded flags
marking my progress through the wasteland:
ice and snow crushed, crushed, crushed
under my boots.
There, on the highest black branch of a skeletal tree —
a lone blackbird, singing into the wind. I lift my head,
then my hand: the salute of a fellow comrade-in-arms.
If the blackbird can sing in the dead of winter,
then why…
