#2

I like to write poetry. Bad poetry.

The First

I cease to move forward.
The first snow beats me to the punch.
Signaling another year
has passed me by.
Like it was yesterday
that I was falling asleep in the den.
Dreaming of wolves and war.

The flakes rest on the branch
adding brightness to what might be
a dull life.

The coldness remains.
My breath as visible as my stagnancy.
Tracing my fingers over the same skin
that’s been there my whole life.
This time of year
bitter.
Like it was yesterday
that I was digging in the snow.

The first snow
knocks the wind out of me.

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