THE WINTER PEOPLE
This is winter’s
We’re stuck in a black and white fog
breathing thin air,
breathing in a writer’s ache
on blank sheets of white paper.
It’s a silent semaphore
the sun to a small white stone.
It’s ice in a flame.
It’s a black and white rainbow.
And the clouds
are hanging like upside down saints,
floundering in fields,
and in-between tufts of weeds.
no longer looks for a place to settle.