The more I manage
to trudge—
with accumulating
confidence—
through the mute
and turgid
bulk of enduring
corpsewhite weather—
(my tough little soul
with each
step straining—for some soft clearance
to leap
forward and sing
and laugh and start whirling such
musical cartwheels
in the here-
and-there still-drifting frigid
shards of glitter—)
the more I seem
to take
in stride—the dreadful implications
lying still-
entombed beneath
the flecked
and filthy enormity
of this
upside—that I'm currently stumbling-
over;
that is—at least
I cannot say
I've ever felt
less
mournfully desperate!—for
the neverending
kind
of silence
being foisted-
down
upon the landscape—by the overall
still-
as-yet unremitting
and absolute
ubiquity
of winter's—thick dull pall.
