The fuzzy embroidery of heaven on my windows;
Yet, when I touch the watery solid with the warm flesh of my fingers, it's not heaven at all I'm seeing.
It's purgatory on Earth: not quite heaven, but at least not hell.
The climatic pests of sweat and back-breaking labor,
The swarm of heat that pulses against the brain screaming,
As the consequences of winter unfold:
Doors erode into placement with their rust,
Engines sucked of their life as the moisture devours their battery.
From afar, winter appeals to those of a warmer climate who flock to the cold like the geese return north when winter ends;
Yet, real life smacks you in the face:
Noses red as strawberries,
Necks bundled in layer after layer after layer of scarves,
Hats wrapping around your face,
Your body surrendering to the cold.
No matter how many pairs of gloves that compress against your hands,
No matter how many sweaters you pack underneath your coat,
It's never enough.
Winter is a demon
Disguised as an angel.
I'm a writer.