Monday, January 31, 2011

Back On The Path

December and January were a bust
First run of the new year happens
The day before February

Wool gloves over numb digits
Music and reflective lines strapped on
White windbreaker against the night wind

Coldest January in ten years
Feels like a sauna in my shirt
A hundred paces into my circuit

The phlegm and sputum
I leave along the way
Are dregs of New Year’s poisons

The ghosts of every helping
Weighs me down but helps
Push even more age out my pores

This is my rite of carnival
This is my celebration of life in winter

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