My mouth is cold, like the winter air
That condenses my breath into
A temporary, unrefined thermometer.

When she goes out, she'll be wrapped up
In her warm coat, and her scarf,
And her writing for which she was made.
Will her mind be setting stories in a
Summer like the one in the photographs?
I doubt I will ever know.

When winter comes, the tourists leave
But the beaches stay, at the mercy of
The harsh and unrelenting sea.
Some even feel the soft touch of snow,
As unthinkable as that is to me.

Perhaps her story is set among
The closed shops and empty arcades
Of a hibernating seaside town,
A lone protagonist wandering along
The empty promenade, buffeted
By the harsh sea winds of winter.

I have a story too, about a man
Who hides in a bustling city;
Who hides from disappointment
He does not understand, hoping
That it will fade in time and
Let him live in the present again.

Both await the promise of spring
And the rejuvenation of their
Worlds as the world reawakens.
But for now, the seaside town
Still sleeps, and my mouth is
Still cold, as I hide from words.

01/09/2009

Posted on 01/09/2009
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