The Long, White Struggle
It’s a long, slow slog;
this stuttering transition
from winter to spring
with hopes of greenery
thawed and frozen all along
the dirty, white way
until you cave in,
like a collapsing igloo,
and believe the ice
age has come for you;
encased you eternally,
one hand on the box
labelled ‘Spring Clothing”
the other on your down filled coat,
desperate with hope
even through nightmares
of hard, white piles crushing
your warm breath to mist.
“It’s supposed to get up to plus eleven by next Friday” he says.
I’ll believe it when I see it
Linda Studley 