Winter freezes my skin into numbness
irradiates my heart's iceberg
in the absence of sun.
On warm wood I know no reason
to be outside wrapped in swaddling clothes
against the cold's insurrection.
I'm free to enter zone seven
where I do not put on
overcoat or scarf no hat
and certainly no boots
to frisk in my mind
nude toes wriggling
hair crumpled in pyramid shapes.
And my skin stretches to accommodate
internal lives that must be lived
without deliberation or design
but with delirium
not Frost's neat little roads
frequented by others
nor the ones less-travelled by.
But infinity and snow
piled in mounds on my window
icicles glittering in certitude
not a shiny drop released
to welcome the greyness of heaven
nor birds awakening me from dreams
just the blizzard at my door.
For the sun does not venture
into my cybernetic antics
shut as I am in the comfort
of rooms and boudoirs
of flowing clothes that hide
the burning fire lighting dark
forging images of my surrender.
Just me marooned
in this delicious vacuum
of cold interiors
snuggled in corridors of perception
in narcissistic voyages
of space unclaimed yet open
to the seeing eye of time.
