Sunday morning.
The ***** *** chill has huddled,
And backed off for a week,
Maybe two,
Winter’s taunt tendered by reprieve,
An unexpected and
Odd postponement of pain and pulse.
The noose of minus 30
Loosens just a smidge,
The condemned man’s smirk,
Part sass this smile of temporary pardon,
Slips into place
Masks a weathered face
Whose wrinkles
Like the rings
Of the twisted Methuselah tree
Accumulate and record.

Dawn appears as a righteous force,
An arrogant prince this weak winter sun,
Still, sunlight sterilizes,
Scrubs away the stain of night.
It will be a black and white clear day,
The cold is crisp,
This morning’s taste is all hard apple,
The crunch of boots on the ground.

Take heart,
The days ahead will bend not break,
We have survived these times before,
Fought this hate before,
We will live to laugh again
Even if in folly.