The poem rose late, full into the winter night.
I, going home, was amazed at the little puffs
of vapor I pushed out into the silvery sheen:
the crunch of the snow, the bite of the air,
the swishing of wither I went.
There’s no rhyme to that, I thought,
retreating further into my coat,
pulling the night in close around me,
but there was.
Thank you for reading And each duly sets. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
The photograph is entitled Let’s not today and was taken in Lincoln, NH, if, I recall, through a patio door on a day that was bitterly cold and wonderfully snowy. For more photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh.
Photograph, poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all…
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