Mantle’s too obvious
and blanket reeks of cheap vodka and sweat stains.
Sheet refers to black ice, the treachery of slipping.
So what word should I use
for wintry timing of our springs?
Each fresh puff of indignation
frays the quilt that dampens ardour.
This cloak and dagger business
has quenched my refrain far too long.
Are there shoots beneath the freezing?
Stones left unsplit from jaw-biting cold?
One thing I do know:
it’s not a comforter.
Join us for some wintry poetry – as literal or as metaphorical as you like – at dVerse Poets Pub tonight!
findingtimetowrite 