I am hovered in the
fragile breath of spring.
Chapped hands clasping
at the howls of nimble air,
in hopes for warmer flesh to swoop-
a stalk to lift me out of here.
Haunts of cold lay about the house,
I screech like songbirds: ‘Let me out!’
And so whilst struck by craving sore
I see good is such an eerie bore.
Now without release,
I count each day,
choked in the pittance I am payed
by keeping on. It precipitates,
days are floods upon my face!
So stifled am I with winter done,
as from my faults I ever run.
