Hannah Whittington

Sonnet To The Sun From Cold Feet - Poem by Hannah Whittington

Alas! it is April when
Via my window you- yellow sphere
make a new puddle on my sheets and whisper
wake up and I will warm you I will
sprawl out against your day
So I, perpetually, almost comically optimistic,
offer my naked feet to February-
but am not appalled, or even surprised
at the corpses that are my toes
with their icy chalkiness,
I suppose some would shake their fists cinematically
Fold over in bitter frustration at the trickery
Like a celluloid broken heart
Of perhaps Greta Garbo
But your promises have never kept in mason jars
Your hot words may sting her and linger
On those second solstice nights
we stay up fanning ourselves
Long after you have
set just the same.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Poem Edited: Tuesday, April 15, 2008

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