motes of snow float listlessly by the window
rising and falling with meandering currents of air
sunlight, filtered pale through grey cloud
another moment passing
a dull refrain...
the chill clawing at walls and doors
incessantly as incomprehensible being
...
another long grey day,
arctic wind,
bodies bundled,
and the mind seeking the warmth of certainty...
not found today
...
today, I wish I was a Marxist with something worldly to believe in
something that gives utter meaning
something that displaces, with in me, the grey despair, the icy thoughts of winter
not some frigid airy faith
but the lodged certainty of mind, man, and history...
but those statues are long gone
those poets of the proletariat have been
single mindedly disgraced
the windows of future hope have been iced over
and our little fire burns the furniture of our lives
like Zhivago's
and the mice are watching us from the cupboards
and the rats fall between the walls scratching at lathe and plaster
and in the night
they scare us scuttling over our sleeping bodies
they’re everywhere
like spies saying nothing
watching, waiting for the cold to take us
unfeeling, frozen on the recliner covered
with a feeble quilt
they’ll dance then before our milky white eyes
open, staring out past the frosty sill
And the ice glaze over the pane
…
when spring comes I will cry with the ice...
melting down the window
when worldly ideology fails
I will read banned books on the soul
spin in the slushy square a sloppy dance
of liberty
when spring comes I will sing
with the crows over dead ideology
that couldn’t save a soul
but could hope to
like all the others
when spring comes
I will look no further than
naked trees promising bud
...
December 3rd 2014