Get out and walk the icy air
And don’t just talk of… in a bit….
Lift up your head, the spine, you know,
Stare down the thick, the wirr-warr of
Thick branches now that they have lost
Their leaves. The light is bronzen,
The afternoon fades. Lord, this wind bites!
And fall’s habits made you neglect
To grope for the gloves of yesteryear
Back there, somewhere, shelved forever,
Or it seems, high up at the back
Of the front hall’s closet where old
Baseball caps build a totem pole.
Those gloves of yesteryear are ready for you again in their usual and more handy location on the entry hall table. Keep those fingers warm and nimble.
ReplyDeleteGood heavens. Go outside? You do realize that it took Mr. Vacation until 3:42 pm this afternoon to make it from the couch to his desk six feet away, don't you?
ReplyDeleteLovely poem! The yoga stretching must be loosening your prose pen.
ReplyDeleteThere was scrambling for gloves here too, but, happily, done over the weekend, in anticipation of what arrived on Tuesday. And boy did it arrive with a gusto!