old turtle’s
hard green shell
smell of moss


stone cold clouds
venting snow drops
plopping on cement
north wind rattling
mailboxes and my bones

this shovel aches
assaulted and battered
in my red mittened hands
scrapping sidewalks bare
before the drifts return
covering my passing

hot rumors swirling
somewhere up above
Sol is at perihelion
faint glowing hope
I feel no truth
inside my numb skin.