tree bark like topographic road map
channels sap to roots
in response to winter.
the wind pierces my ear numb.
I pedal into the wind like a pirate
who visions land craves rum.
this frosty exhaustion
brings tears to that which blinks
behind the steamy spectacle of sight.
if it has to get cold
I will have to acclimate myself.
the days devoid of brilliant sum
fall into each other
like shoppers in an icy parking lot.
I can tell how the day will end,
how the fallen snow is really a blanket
gathered in folds
even as wood smoke clings in cold air
and cushions the atmosphere.
still no sun,
my thoughts become a vapor of confusion.
neither caring nor caring if I do,
I press my face against the pane,
cold glass soothing my temple,
and ask the sky:
is the other side the same
as here in my brain?
or is it just this glass,
this transparent alibi,
that keeps us apart?
© Doreen Shababy