the winds of winter whip and whisk
the grassy scent of the park coupled with the incessant snow
the clickety clack of the trains at the station
under London
the lollipop man waving the red-capped children across
with a scarf wrapped around his face
it is the kind of cold that makes
smokers quit for a few days
and out of nature's white gunfire I dive
into the hazel-old library
warm, soothing, quiet. everyone moves slowly.
paper, wood, dew. good smells.
my brain still swaddled with words, like the books
and it turns out
I can't escape the cold, because
the cold is in my head
I can't survive this
and a tear escapes my eye
as I collapse onto the floor
but I remind myself:
this, too, shall pass
so I open up a new chapter
and start reading.
because they say
all great books
have not-so-great beginnings
and I trust them
~ the end ~
