January 2009

January

Up here, January isn’t the beginning

but the middle,

Of winter, doubt, serious cold.

Sharp wind slices along the main street

Crowded with the sounds of hard working cars,

Of tough packed snow, labored breath, creaking ice.

Mean sky and low clouds light our faces,

Flushed and creased with flat smiles,

Of determination, measured hope, longing.

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