I opened my window
and the cold blasted through
sending books
toppling
from my desk,
snow riddled hardbacks
lay open like mouths
with crumpled tongues of page,
there was nothing outside
but winter
and the bleached cloak
of whitefall
about this
beat down
city,
and when
I pulled
the window closed
all I saw was
the battered mug
of a man sick-of-
it-all
which masked
the soul-bits
of boy-heart
and longing-to-
feel-alive,
this golden beard
that grow
down
toward my feet
and further still
with ear
to wisdom
and eyes still
as those of beast
and glistening back
into all-of-this-
as-me,
and yet to dance
behind my eyelids
in black
and dream
and wish,
but lay now about this
bed of face
and in the wet
to one day dry
against these
thoughts.
Eric Hamilton
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/february-shmebruary/
