I am clad in winter now, packed away by snow and cold and dark;
I become a flippered seal: thick layers of clothing insulate me like layers of blubber;
I see, hear so little too much: muffling snow tricks reflections of light and sound;
driving becomes absurd: slush and ice and snow in all those varieties
defeat tire treads until sideways and merry-go-round are the new forward.
At night, house lamps and streetlights varnish snow, casting their dim calls
up to dark low hanging clouds, making outdoors a dim, indeterminate
abysmal room in which this night walker waddles like child in a snowsuit
fearful of being struck by a rogue vehicle loosely under the semi-control
of a citizen whose encumbrances rival my own: I am the equivalent of
a severely arthritic, slightly demented, aged invalid. Since those adjectives
describe me fairly accurately indoors and in summer, perhaps I should be
grateful to this season that levels the playing field for me. Hail to winter!

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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