the cold the day left

by strannikov

in our teens as tough as the cold

we wore denim and flannel with our boots

kicking at whichever wind blew

out of fields or over beaches

through juke joints on their way to abandon.


later, when the cold was tougher,

we wore hats with gloves and scarves, no matter

the time for donning and doffing,

no matter where wind was standing,

weaving through streets apaved in abandon.


lethal cold rattles our windows

and not five feet away water's aboil,

the steam of harvested jasmine

no harried residence for snow

as flakes float tossed by skies they've abandoned.