Bitter January Wind
Face to the bitter January wind.
eyes stinging.
Its piercing bite
snapping wildly
at my hair.
Its sharp cold edge
just barely dulled
by the armor
of the wall.
I seek solace
in the rising sun.
And I watch,
as the winds talons
rip rubbish
from the clinging arms
of the thistles.
like a prize.
And I watch,
as the wind pummels
parked cars
with rocks.
chipping paint.
And I watch,
as a stubborn gull
flies backwards.
and then suddenly darts forward-
almost tumbling from the sky.
And the wind laughs.
For it brings the unexpected.
©
Johnelle Warren. 2001-2005.
