maybe mornings like this
are the price we pay
for all those years of compromise
of being barely close enough
to each other. We’ve survived,
at least we share that, such a thin
blanket to cover the cold spots
on cold mornings such as this.
Yet I do like grey winter days
when the wind rattles the leafless trees
and the world turns without shadows.
heading out, my dog looks daggers
up at the clouds — he doesn’t understand
the rain, why he should have to endure
these cold tears falling from a sheet metal sky.
Neither of us has ever been very good
with cause and effect, or the subtle attributes
of time. What choice is there but to carry on,
as we always have, sniffing at the rotten snow
heads down, shaking ourselves dry, nose
to tail as we go – just cold, wet dogs
searching for a place
that’s safe and warm and dry.
© 2016 jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com
Sally- I dont know the concerto your refer to; I’ll have to give it a listen. Thanks for taking the time to read and comment
Really liked this poem, Jeff. I had two different reactions. First, I heard, as I read, the Winter leading into Spring movements from Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D. Secondly, the images and stories of refugees came to mind. Your poems transport those of us who read them into other dimensions. Thank you.