One Degree Lower

The nowness of the moment, spent as it is,

Has brought me to my Sixty Second of Winter.

Now I wear a Crown of Frost

As though I have snow on the roof.

Oh how hope and time

So èasily slide from us.

I am as yet not quite fully chilled,

Unlike Michigan.

I would prefer to be wearing a Ghillie Suit,

Which has been made to resemble something of the fall.

To be of that which is at the forest floor,

To be hidden in the Colours of the season,

To be so much in its likeness,

I am become Autumnal New English,

In an Old English Treescape.

Whose vista and beauty is unmeasurable.

So I have it instilled instead,

Like some remnant stain of watercoloured tears,

En printed in the minds eye.

There it is lodged and will remain for my lifetime.

It Embellishes the memory, even as I sleep

Even though I may, repeatedly weep.

For I am in possession of a freezing heart,

Which acts like a chock against my love.

It has a stealthy grip, which I can scarcely conseal.

This is the reason for my poetic traits.

And these my blunt verses?

They choose me, not I them.

And Their progression

Makes me chill a little more.

(c) 2018 Christopher Thompson

all rights reserved

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