Dead Winter
The view outside is shameful, to say the least.
Snow is sparse,
Thinning hair struggles over bald spots.
Is this really winter in the Rocky Mountains?
Is this really what we’ve been reduced to,
A fucking January that has no substance?
Has the sharp knife of the wind dulled the winter’s blade?
What happened to the days, when my spit
Would turn to ice,
Before it even hit the ground?
When you couldn’t leave the house
Without your arsenal of clothing.
Show me that “dead of winter,”
Not, a dead winter.
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