Desolate Noon

Sharp gales blow off the blazing frost bike path
pavements buried and the worlds deserted
heavens been locked inside,
an icy vice
so tight lashed, air asphyxiates
til noon's face streaks a bitter glowing blue
then eyesight's pummeled by sleek elegiac hues
and drifts deluge mounds of white gold

Everywhere a third rate tundra
You can barely walk a mile without
getting glutted sludge in 12 inch ankle boots
the fine art of walking becomes absurd
its either a labor of nimble movement
or a science of survival
each small step
an act of self defense
against poised brutality
of winters despotic force

Still, nothing stirs alone the path,
the birds have flowing for springs break
owls stay, but their chicken, loons for a coup
the field mice retire, beavers simply stagger
sometimes a footprint of a lone jack rabbit
desperate for a handout, mother nature scowls
and daredevil squirrel, scourging for acorns
we all really know is just another name for a nut

and the wind,
yes, always that wind
a howling abeyance of primeval chaos
luring as the sirens
it is the echo of a séance
and the cries of legion wake
for the winters winds are the sounds of ghosts
the eons of our ancestors calling from the door
wrapping my body in cotton warmth
for one day I will join its chorus

Such is the beauty of desolation
this lands a graveyard painted white

by Kevin Patrick

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