In February

The season drags, the life that lives it also.
River clogged with blobs of ice; the car won't
Start. The house so chilly coats and gloves
Become the norm; there's naught to do, inside
Or out, and, anyway, the will to do's become
Diminished. This old man, he played at
Nothing. He just sits and watches as
The shadows slide from west to east beneath
The widespread walnut trees. An eagle nears,
Then floats from sight. The bearer of the mail
Arrives, thrusts bills in box, and spurts away.
The phone brings only distant frauds. The man
Regrets no longer smoking. How this season

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2020-02-14 at 19:14

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