I smell the prickling air
expecting the billowing smog from the clammy pavement to rise
longingly placing one palm atop another in the mist
as sunrays pelt the buildings
creating a symphony of grimy gold
The air of Previous Winters were different,
brittle -
promiscuous enough for someone who rambled
to feel untrammelled and alone
I could’ve spun dark whimsical taradiddles
about old loves, their knotty faces
sneering in the grey-blue,
the fog drooping a sweet despair above
there were summers when life shaped differently,
each holding piercing shards of memory,
huge pieces of time
that disappeared completely
I stretch my arms -
silvery ghost of winter is melting in sparkling yellow,
the air is too clear for mawkishness-
occasional glimpses of a different season
race over the windblown swath,
there is a warm halo somewhere,
for the Previous winters were merely an overture.
