As winter takes its final parting shots—
rouging my pale cheeks strawberry red one last time,
and trimming and embroidering the windowpanes with frosted tracery,
inscribing in the latticed glaze an icy vow to return again next year
in elegant, needle-laced, crystalline calligraphy,
I can’t help but resign that surviving this season
wasn’t as hard as I had anticipated;
winter was relatively tame.
The weather didn’t turn my tricks to rust,
I didn’t lose any limbs to the cold,
I kept my heart incubated,
and even though I had to literally dig myself out of winter
I made it out unscathed.
And I once again find myself
out on the front porch, perched in a wicker chair
next to my kindred company,
armed with coffee and cigarettes,
spells and charms,
freshly restrung guitars and the devil’s crossroads blues,
bathing in the sunlight,
rejuvenated by its rays,
ready to take on the world.
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