Geriatric Jack (Frost)

That grand old poem called Winter. - Thoreau

i pass by the innocent river

as it struggles to remain unfrozen

its slow but steady, eternal flow resisting frigidity

patches of white, peanut brittle ice forming around rocks, sporadically at its banks

here and there, a bent tree touches the water

forming icicles like a chandelier

crystal clear

i cross over the bridge to downtown, main street

past the old, brick mill

the wind howls and moans its painful discomfort

blowing down the sidewalk, forming an inescapable, blue, steel vortex

cutting like a serrated knife

biting like an insatiable, teething dog

time to go home and feed the fire another log

i'll wear gloves so that i don't get a splinter

lord knows i wouldn't want to upset old man winter

Author's Note

"In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends." - Thoreau

Reviews

[MCS]

What an amazing visual you've painted here. Enjoyed!