By the Cold

The leaves on the sycamore trees were wise to fall so early. For winter seems to settled in well ahead of its usual time here in the deep south. It’s a fitting tribute to the year that we’ve all shared. Between the floods, the hurricanes, and now the freezing cold. But still the skies are as blue as a painted picture created by someone with a true heart. I just stepped out of a hot shower, feeling fresh even with the bitter cold slapping my face. 

I reside within the limits of my existence. With lots of cover on the bed, a failing electrical system, living on a poor man’s fixed wage. Still I create words from dreams I send out to who knows where. With hardly a thought of fame or worldly gain. This whole soliloquy is probably meaningless to anyone other than myself. Because honestly even I don’t know where I’m headed. With a love from a far I can only dream of satisfaction, while practical thinking dangles its carrot in front of me. 

So I have no words of wisdom for you today, with my hands tucked under my arms for warmth. Still I look out across the fence at the contempt as so many others have. Waiting like vultures to pick at the carcass laid out before them. For there’s no changing a mind when that mind is consumed with fear. So I will take my of this burning fear. Praying that whatever salvation they have left isn’t eaten away with by the cold.