The trembling acres on those grounds Were fit with trees as tall and tall And swaying high from left to right As far as I could see, they were. They lined the trails of whitest snow That covered plains and hills atop A frigid cold that seemed to pierce The birds that nest so far and high. The coldest March I’ve ever seen With branches stiff on highest trees That threatened me with distant sounds Were ominous with every sway.
In those days I’d sit
By the window sill
In the cold dark daytimes
I’d hear the blinds in the kitchen
Then a chill followed by unwelcome cold
Breeze, from those gray days.
It was not morbid.
I was younger, Reveling in possibilities.
My friends would call me in the
Evenings, and we’d be
Be 40 year misanthropes
In Manhattan bars.
I was in the mindset of returning
To that small, wooded college
upstate NY, as I took a personal leave.
A sea of papers covered my
Bedroom floor with sophomoric attempts
At a novel.
I didn’t mean to make those memories,
Such is the way of nostalgia.
I’d let the tap from the blinds on
the window Keep calling me. I’d light a
cigarette and smoke.
Meticulously in moms kitchen. Letting
My thoughts ruminate. Giving into short
I didn’t need the Spring to
Bring me to my senses. It was still cold
Out, when I arose from that state
And closed the window shut.