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Mar 2011
Wood smoke on a frosty February air,
Let it drift through my window and
interrupt my thoughts,
Tinted with the frozen taste of forest mildewβ€”where you once held my hand when we stepped over a fallen log.
Red wine head ache beat my temples raw,
And the heater rattles in the walls so I
toss and turn.
I do not think of you often; but now I do, wrapped up in yellow blankets and breathing deep the snow falling air.
The ping, ping, ping
of an over fulled drain,
it beats a metronome against the aluminum roof next door.
I sleep with the window open to catch the sent of burring birch,
or hardened pine,
I warm my senses and drift away
to a time before February froze the air.
Written by
LNJensen
563
 
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