Trees shoot past the ground, branches glisten like fried and bent electrical wire, stopping short of receiving heaven's charge. Soaked leaves startle the state bird, or The Mocking is having a ball, and newborn's sit in the Tennessee cold till they resemble winter tulips rapped in frost. The cold days come but never fully go.
The air becomes thin and habits surface to avoid confrontation and to stay warm. Tomorrow I hope to wake, and each moment until then, will be a chance to think of how to fend of the daze of frost, caught in an avalanche of hope, no matter how dreary, knowing it will be warm again, and the ghost of winter will haunt the south once more.
I wonder if the cold sky, where only birds and planes fly, if there is a sense of rapture or, if the polished veneer of the vanishing blue and gray mock human eyes like a quick handed magician .The anxiety of an uncertain future compresses all thoughts, no matter how many mirrors are kept on all sides.
The air becomes thin and habits surface to avoid confrontation and to stay warm. Tomorrow I hope to wake, and each moment until then, will be a chance to think of how to fend of the daze of frost, caught in an avalanche of hope, no matter how dreary, knowing it will be warm again, and the ghost of winter will haunt the south once more.
