Yet the Wind

Wind rattles the worn shutters,

The sound bothers him.

Snow speckles the grass

Just like the weather man said,

A picture of his brother before his tour in Vietnam

On the desk beside the bed,

Annoyed, he leaves the radio on and heads outside

He has work to do.

Crooked arthritic gait, grass stiff under feet

Mixed with half glossed mud,

A half a mile from the paved street.

A humbling chill

Fifteen miles per hour

From the west, 

Turns his face red,

Breathing in burns his chest,

Silently

Sets his face downward,

Like the day he prayed

In the chair beside her bed,

At the conclusion of her mortality.

Different now, indeterminable to know when,

Gradual as the rot of his barn,

A realization as he bears the work

With the flannel shirt, wool lined jacket

And worn leather gloves,

many winters as such, many winters…

  ——-yet the wind.

When did life lose its warmth?

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About Joe Suzz

I probably don't fit into your box. View all posts by Joe Suzz

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