A tempest night sky presses, my lattice windows shake,
as if someone’s being thrown against them, or worse yet,
a yeti's breaking in.  They lock with little levers that seem far
too flimsy to keep out the prying fingers of turbulence.

We watched a man plodding outside - obviously a student from Alaska. He was talking on his phone, his breath a continuous, cold white cloud. He slipped, careering drunkenly but managed to stay upright by assuming a surfer-like crouch.
“Where do you think HE’s going?” Lisa wondered.

Forget fall’s polite, amuse-bouche of chill, we’ve been smacked,
full frontally assaulted by the gigantic, cold-fist of winter. “Go on,”
I said, to the weather gods last fall, like an unlucky gambler on a
losing streak. “hit me!”

Now I’m searching Amazon for “flannel underwear”.

Is a *******
If seasons were people
He'd be Gregory House
Vicodin hungry
Volatile, Pins, and ******* Needles

The queen of winter comes.
An expressionless assassin
who feels no passion, she comes
as silently as the shadow of a cloud.

She may come crowned by aurora borealis,
or in ziggurat-like steps of paralysis,
but the song she sings freezes earthly things
and her chilly breath brings a sleepy death.
The queen of winter comes.

A deadly kiss from those frozen lips
can shatter skin like glass.
May howling hounds warn you
and blazing fires warm you.
The queen of winter comes.

Well, ol’ boy
stood in the vista, a little lost
but feet finding the pub
nonetheless

that sun tried to make its point
which, though we acknowledged,
we tried to sidestep

clag mud added heavy boots
while loose, happy chat sat
in apotheosis

til a moussaka
and a couple of sublime fish dishes
let us sit down and rest

after miles
these muscles pretend to ache

the sun has that certain haze
as if it were the dead of Summer
and heat radiated through the air

but

this is a tease a reminder of those days
because indeed the air is fresh
and sharp as it should be in Winter

at the seaside a roaring song and dance
those distant waves appear as a range
the ridges of a desert mountain top

and

silhouetted at depths with the vibrance
of sunset hues bringing shade to the wild
while preparing for the cool of night

the reflections are shorter now
and I lose sight of that glowing orb
as far off clouds take shape to dip

then

colors shift to violet, navy and maroon
leaving a bruise to bumps in the night
and dream of an August day by the sea

For miles the white path leads
Silent, still, crisp air

Only a slight crunch beneath feet
Too cold to be damp

Come! We will walk
And feel the stillness of snow

January, still

the days are dark and short, still --


there are Christmas lights.