It is early in the morning.
The sky is grey, February-like, and cold.
Last week’s snow lies patchy and dirty on the ground.
The bicycle lies on the ground,
the victim of wind.
Off in the yard, chairs lay akimbo.
You are dressed for the weather.
Sixty-three winters have prepared you
and you know how to dress against the storms.
Your heavy coat hangs on your shoulders.
Your wool cap covers your head.
Your socks are thick.
Still, there is no escaping the cold.
Stay out long enough and it creeps in the fissures.
The only escape is to move,
to raise a sweat from your core
that will keep you warm,
but only until you stop.
About this poem.
About winter. About depression. Reader’s choice.
Yes, that’s my bike.