February winter was callous
And it’s still demanding restitution
From hostile winds that hunted it
Gravely last summer.
The winds, from atop crests of
Pacific waves, sallied the
Winter’s dew, powdering its face.
I wore a cravat, slinking among
Dead woods, among fainted boughs
Hoodwinked by queries of the wild.
Holed up in catatonic schizoid,
I mused over wavelengths of lethargy
Cringing the face of a dead world.
Fate gambolled about right in my face.
Within my ken of prognosis,
I revalued the cost of tomorrow,
Repined of the pustule of today’s
Wounds, and the insuperability of
Yesterday’s pogrom.
The sea lies prostrate to a deafening
Thunder; lightning strips it of its
Waves – whited with the teeth of
Piddling clouds.