It is mid-March. My thermometer refuses to move above freezing.
The white Christmas blanket covers my world well into Lent.
Winter now just lingers, past the anticipation of October, past the appreciation of December, deep into the disgust of March.
Like the last guest on a boring evening
Like the last chapter of a dull novel
Like the swill at the bottom of a child's soda bottle
Like tennis elbow
Like leftover cabbage
No comments:
Post a Comment