I will die in Winter.
You will not be so easy quit of me.

Frozen ground,
imported flora,
heavy, itchy clothes,
and roads near treachery,
not easy quit of me.

Sound will travel well through frozen ground
with winter clutched around.

I’ll hear your stomping feet,
my chance to hear you
dance to keep you warm.
I’ll hear your sad retreat,
no, not you,
not easy quit of me.

The gray of trees, ground, and sky
form havoc on your mood,
with bitten cheeks in wind.

I hope it’s sleeting.
I hope your car won’t start.

I will die in daytime.
No slipping in my sleep,
so someone has to watch the kids for you.

Rush hour on Friday,
the every other Friday between paydays,
hopefully a birthday too,
the day the cake is due.
Oh no,
not you, you see,
not easy quit of me for I will die in Winter.

01/31/2006

Posted on 02/01/2006
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers