The Beginning of Winter
A cold evening, the first snow of the season has fallen. I get a coffee and look at the powdered streets. With the coffee comes a glass of ice cold water. The market is a dark row of tarps and stacked crates.
Reading: February by Margaret Atwood
Margaret Atwood (b. 1939) is an acclaimed Canadian novelist who also writes poetry, that I find quite accessible. I plucked 'February' from the interwebs: February Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to ...
Late Winter
it is still outside, the hills are static their shape, their surface, their life unseen wind chills and in the trees the pine cones sing a cold song of the dying winter a flower is forgotten by the frost its purple head needs no big images there will be no echo when it falls sorrow ...