The season feels infantile;
snow diapering the earth.
Busy street lights snoozing
through the night,
while our cycles are
broken by familiar cries,
of sirens blinking warnings
on trees that have long since
withdrawn their limbs.
The season feels infantile;
the rattle of trashcans offers
little diversion, as we search
for our mothers who’ve gone missing
in the catacombs of snow.
We reach our hands to the sky,
yearn for a flurry of colostrum,
anything to protect us,
but the maker’s bosom stays
camouflaged in cumulous,
and fuzzy snow makes static,
blurring all potential remedy.
The season feels infantile;
Don’t know the stranger in the mirror,
so I say hello, I love you—
eyes roll back with a frost nip smile.
Monotony swaddles me
in Saturday’s silence,
as I long to grasp the shortening
of desire, days and destinations.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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