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Cold
January 27, 2009
Ice is such a rare thing out here,
The closest we get to snow,
Throughout the entire year,
And it starts when the wind blows.
The wind starts to moan,
The animals come inside,
The wooden-fences groan,
The songs of crickets have died.
Trashcans roll across the street,
Gates clang non-stop,
As though being beat
By a furious cop.
And people huddle in their beds,
Trying to sleep,
Covers over their heads,
As they count sheep.
© Alex J., Newton, MA
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