Winter's frigid fingers search for gaps,
Seeking chinks in my thermal armor,
Probing past my shuttered collar,
Ignoring both scarf and sweater,
Slicing their gelid grasp past all guards.
Wind shoves me with sleeted, frozen hands,
That push warmth from marrow of my bones;
Riming skin with bitter frosting,
Grating nerves that burn with numbness,
Till the chill brings stone-silent fatigue.
Soft and white, my crystal blanket falls.
Tenderly, the frost wind tucks me in.
Quietly, the cold wind whispers,
Calling me to tranquil slumber,
Dreaming long dreams of a distant Spring.
Mick McKellar
January 2015
What would it be like to hibernate? Would it be a softer, friendlier version of freezing to death? Some days, just opening the front door brings these thoughts to mind.
Mick
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