a tuesday morning poem

It’s cold here today, it feels like fall in Winnipeg,
though it’s spring in Vancouver.

With the wind
and it’s whispers of promises you beg it not to keep.

Memories scurry and scrunch in your furrowed brow.
Flashes of -35 for weeks,
bleak bland pale senery,
death a constant stagnant pulse, a rhythm unforgettable.

Red pain on flesh mixed with cracks deep like vallies.
Cream deep thick summer sented cream, salve of the gods.
Please offer soothing sadisfation upon contact.

I ask the same of many, objects.


These word juttered through my morning coffee upon the balcony.