Frost

I'm counting down the days

glimpses at the calendar bring dismay,
the wheel turning, turning againt my head
as grindstone to the chaff. I think I've heard
it said that it will end in fire, but reconsider, Mr.
Frost, that is NOT what anyone would desire.

Being so right at mending fences, and other
matters of the heart, I've stopped in your woods
countless times, always deciding to move on. But
now I've stumbled upon relentless heat, layer upon
layer burning away, a 16 month stay of execution.

But I think I've found an very 'nice' solution.

My shoulders turn at the very mention, and if all beings
follow, our intentions will be clear, a distinct chill in the air;
stear love inward, and the cold rush of hate without. For
then I have no doubt the world will have to end with ice.

So smoke if you've got 'em, drink to excess, freeze those
anxious tears hard on your face in glacial expression,

and the icy glaze of depression will suffice.



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