The Not Winter Poem by Leslie Philibert
The Not Winter
The wind smells of
frozen milk and carbolic,
this is the edge of December;
a slopping out of leaves
and burnt wood, the overspew
of ovens that keeps
us holding out coats at the throat.
The winter is still out,
we wait for the last bus of snow.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: snow
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4/24/2024 7:23:47 AM # 1.0.0.1119
