November Cold Poem by Laurence E. Bourke

Winters transparent coat, the blustery cape of a November morning
Swings downward, erratically and with ultimate force,

A barbarous mixing of air and below zero climes, snatched
From some icy landmass and thrown, shockingly southward,

We are not used to it, the real cold, the killing kind,
Armed to the teeth with glittering knives, dipped in

The blind lakes up north. bloated pools of dark water,
Expanding and adapting, we can only settle in, hide away.

Our raw skins traipse from day to stinging day,
Living out our winters in the mind...