I know if I were not sensitive to cold
there is a festival in the open snow.
If I could snap the icicles
falling from the eaves,
I would put them to my lips
and trumpet the sound of winter
in their horns.
But I can not live there anymore.
It belongs to absolute zero.
To the groaning sea ice
blocking the locks between
one lake to another.
One sea to the endless proportions
of a faraway storm.
Rather, the white uniforms of nurses
tending to the patients
of the physician’s office,
draw me away passing out forms,
standing at attention calling out names,
rousing the eyes of a staring soul,
not in love as I,
with the winter snow outside.
Where sweetness touches my lips,
and calls from bushes
throwing a ball of white asteroid,
to explode against my chest,
new earth in the making.
Time is calling to me from the snow
as if I have no time for dying,
inside where I keep warm.
Trying to locate all the numbers
and codes I need
to gain entrance to the doctor’s care.
And in sheer frustration
I drop my papers and look outside
to the imaginal beings waving to me.
Keep a place for me I call in a
whisper.
I am little, I want to make angels
in the snow,
laugh an endless laugh,
while a white uniform picks up
my papers, smiles
and leads me away as I say
goodbye, to people that love me,
outside.