The air tickles
my open skin
turning numb
without shelter
as fragile wisps of February
stream from my mouth
into an atmosphere of ice
the sun burns in a sea of clouds
somewhere far above
but why doesn’t the warmth I know is out there
change the world where I tremble
how long will the branches around me stay frozen
and fearful on the trees where they were born
how long will it be until this desolate season melts
away to the bird songs of life
how long will it be until the white cloak covering this forest
is torn away
to reveal the green
leaves of growth
Kelvin Bueckert 