False Hopes
Brief thaw after long, deep frost.
An ambush for chilled cheeks and toes.
The heart’s periphery seems to feel,
hoping against what it really knows,
that gelid numbness will soon return,
becoming inert ice chips once more.
Winter storms arrive and depart.
Spring remains a rumor of green,
the dead world hidden from sight.
How to live on the soul’s tundra,
to survive each lingering icy night?
Hope has migrated to tropical dreams.
Despair perches on bare branches.
Brumal brushes paint plain white bones.
Loneliness stays like a cruel snowman,
bitterly slashing flesh and desire.
These wounds of torn, algid woe,
cut deeply by screaming polar winds,
will not be healed by one warm day,
in spite of smiling thermometers, or
what the knees of weather girls say.
If you like this piece, and can afford it, please consider donating.
It’s cold in the dumpster today…
