Musing on a January day. |
This January day is dim gray umbrella horizon to horizon; white flakes flutter en massé in swirl to rooftop, road, to gnarled limbs left bare by fall. A splash of sun then soaks the sky, yet overcast gray canopy imbibes the light as if so parched, as if sky’s lips crack beyond chap and Heaven’s throat in soreness cries. It’s maw above, and so the season feeds said firmament heat stored from the crust, from the inner bowels of Earth to sate this yen of atmosphere, this growl of gut on high that worries not of poisons, no not of any ague or salmonella, nor random parasite nor any bane of ill unleashed by human beings. Surely winter’s day shall thrive, and we will read it like novella, like the pulp of fiction past as radiation from life’s star succumbs to veil spread vast on high. And surely we will gaze through picture windows at the scene, and marvel once again as she applies her metamorphic spin. In decades past I would be want to gather snowflakes on my tongue, or spin with stocking hat and scarf within the wind engaging now as gust. Yet now, there’s comfort on the carpet, and pampering the football game to me. Plus January owns my joints, and muscles are mere mozzarella. 25 Lines Writer’s Cramp 1-17-16 ______ Requirements: --umbrella --salmonella --novella --mozzarella |