the snow, now a crusty tundra
over most everything,
tries to strangle the earth into
ground down by wheels on the road,
and melted by salt
ever so slightly, it becomes
a sheet of wet glass
that offers neither
reaction or traction;
at nineteen degrees,
it is going nowhere soon.
the harbor currents,
and their waves, greet only
gulls and terns, making
great arcs, desperately
looking for anything
that is moving;
we are all looking desperately
for anything
that is moving.

January 25, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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