One gray day chases the next
all color sucked out of the landscape by the wind
the wind that rushes through the narrowness between buildings
slips steathily up my sleeve cuffs
and in the gap at my waist where my sweater rides up under my coat.
I measure the short hours of the day by the rhythmic lull of NPR
The chime of the clock tower two blocks away
by which I marked the progress of warm days
muted by double-paned glass.
Each limb conducts its own retraction
joints curl in on themselves
until the chords that connect neck to spine could be plucked in pizzicato.
The tension wears me out,
wears me down.
I make lists – lists to remind myself of all I want to do
but can’t make myself stay indoors for when
days are long and warm:
Then, the other day, between marble library columns
a blue-haired girl crossed my path.
A flourescent yellow ball bounced against the curb,
the curb splashed piled with snow and splashed with soot from passing cars.
Pink-orange wisps painted the late afternoon sky.
I drink it in – the blue, yellow, pink-orange
let it quench my color thirst,
let it pull me forward,
past the ashen sky, the sandy landscape, the milky New England winter
until the rush of azure, poppy, forest green repopulate the scenery
and nourish me into spring.