by John Grey
Snow falls on snow.
And, in between,
I trudge.
Yes it’s beautiful
but it chills my bones.
It decorates.
It beautifies.
But my fingers freeze
despite my gloves.
I am on my way
to a place
that will offer me
radiance and discomfort
in equal abundance.
The weather forecaster
got it right.
Now it’s down to
the people forecaster.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
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