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Questions put to the Wind

21 Feb

 

Bitter cold wind, out of the frozen North, icy, wavy air pounding on tender skin,

Fingers dry, so dry, so cold, so stiff unable to grasp keys, or steering wheel with sure sensation.

Layers of clothes we pile on top of ourselves and still you sneak through every little space

Whip our scarves around; send our hats sailing and we running to recapture them

The mad dash to shelter from the house to car or bus stop or train station or plane

What do you want with us? What did we do to you?  When will you leave us in peace?

 

 

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