I am the biting wind.
Harsh. Bitter. Cold.

I bear not the comfort
or subtleties of a summer breeze.
I will not flirt and flit about,
Or be gently pushed away when you tire of me.

You may try to move on
but I am not easily escaped.

I lie and wait those frigid nights
outside your door,
lunging as soon as you emerge.
I spring for your vulnerabilities.

Feel my breath upon your neck,
your exposed ears, cheeks, nose.

I attack without mercy,
begging your acknowledgement
but you continue briskly
until you reach your destination.

Though you ignore me, you feel my presence,
A deep chill aching in your bones.

A single glance through a window,
At the leaf-less trees,
At the frozen squirrel corpses beneath them
Will make you recall my icy touch.

I will not be forgotten.

Posted on January 9, 2013, in Poetry, Writing and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Oooh makes me cold. Great poem.

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