By PJ Carmichael
trudging through the fluffy stuff
as the train’s brakes
prove their inefficiency.
Tired trees, their limbs
bending beneath the weight
lament the loss of leaves,
shiver in the cold,
their bark barren and lifeless.
Heavens spill their belly:
sidewalk cracks covered
in salt and slush,
“The last thing we need,”
a voice on the street
can be heard snapping,
“is more goddamn snow.”
Still, it falls
on the suburban sprawl,
the sidestreets and shadows,
the gaping potholes, the local churches,
the homes of the blessed and patient,
dwellings of the conniving and surly,
the entirety of a northeastern neighborhood.
Ambitious aspirations: put off
to accommodate the sudden storm.
Amidst the relative dread, a child’s
laughter reflects hidden sunlight.
That’s just the nature of the season:
shovels for some,
sleds for others.
PJ Carmichael is a writer, artist, explorer and spiritualist from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He frequently finds himself caught between the forestry of New England and the nightclubs of its cities. His interests include immersion in the natural environment and subsequently extend into the metaphysical.