21 November 2011

Baby, It's Cold Outside



Like, seriously, baby. It was in the 20s the other night. There was ice falling out of the sky.

Why oh why must winter come so soon?



My daughter's heavier. Light leaves are flying.
Everywhere in enormous numbers turkeys will be dying
and other birds, all their wings.
They never greatly flew. Did they wish to?

I should know. Off away somewhere once I knew
such things.

Or good Ralph Hodgson back then did, or does.
The man is dead whom Eliot praised. My praise
follows and flows too late.
Fall is grievy, brisk. Tears behind the eyes

almost fall. Fall comes to us as a prize
to rouse us toward our fate.

My house is made of wood and it's made well,
unlike us. My house is older than Henry;
that's fairly old.
If there were a middle ground between things and the soul

or if the sky resembled more the sea,
I wouldn't have to scold.
my heavy daughter.


May you all have a warm and safe evening.

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