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And So It Goes, As A Seasonal Affair

my flowers took root in the ground.
like a metaphor, we will always have roots in each other,
and I like that. but only because it's poetic.
there is a difference
between the time it took for me
to make a casual acquaintance in my bed
and the time it took for you
to make a good friend in yours,
except that doesn't matter. it feels different
but there is snow on the asphalt now.
I drive home with my father's low beams.

6:07PM at 24 degrees fahrenheit,
it is the warmest we've been in a while now.

on cold blanketed days, everything the light touches sparkles.
the frozen trees glisten,
their trunks twisting and cracking like gunfire in the woods,
like mother nature warning off her suitors. this time of year is not fun.
the snow may remind you of cotton balls but
remember that the ice underneath is sharp, and hard. you will fall,
and you may do more than scrape your knee,
but don't blame the ice for your clumsy feet.
don't blame the ice when you could have seen this,
if you knew this sidewalk was slick there were chemicals at your disposal,
this is not her fault. you could have seen this coming.
you could have heeded the forecast, paid attention to storms past
don't you blame her. this was you.
so when you at least scrape your knee, find a bandage.
when you scrape your heart against the cold find some gauze and
wrap it up, leave, take it with you. do not blame her.

look straight ahead into the white and remember
that there will be an end,
no whiteout lasts forever, not even the polar kind.
there are constant cycles in nature and you will know spring again,
you will know the leaps and bounds like fawns that are fresh.
you will relearn love poems. do not blame her.
you will sleep on your own instead of hibernate,
and one day you will stop searching for wildflowers.
you will learn to sow a garden outside of a box,
and you will grow in it.
you will realize your body for a seed casing and shed it.

as for the summer, there is a ways to go yet,
but you're getting there.
every degree contributes to the heat,
as the sun turns the world it gets closer,
and closer, and more...

you might reach the sixteen hundreds,
when it was "to die."
or maybe,
you might simply live.

Last few words: 
on cycles and weather and mostly learning about letting go. a performance poem.
Editing stage: 


hurricane season
wind blew a large tree over
and put out four thousand without
power around cedar heights

"driving with the low beams"
I remember those misted weather
days....thinking behind the wheel
if I drove today it would just be
a drive at this age
fifty three
giving up on the questions
unlike younger seasons
This poem was cohesive
I read it when it was new
and then wasnt comprehensive
enough to answer
Now a year old I can
say I enjoyed its length
its performance....
Thank U

Mr Wolf!

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