Winter: The Seamstress
What a prudish season:
thick grey fabric pulled
tight below the knee
backstitched together
with barely a slit
in the seam–
making it
(almost)
impossible
for the legs
to unfurl
and let light
come crashing in.
Winter: The Chef
It’s like
our loving
yellow yoke
is trapped
under another
soggy, sullen
pancake.
There’s no
blue halo
to save us
And the super-sized
spatula for the sky,
has gone missing
for months.
Winter: The Blacksmith
He aims
his animus
at the mouth
of an anvil;
and forges
molten metal
into armaments
designed to
chisel away
at the slab
of concrete,
sulking
across the sky.