The Old Prof Thinks Out Loud

The white silence presses its face against our closed windows,
winter disguised as a castoff child exhaling unbroken ice,
its makeup pale, void of any theatrics.
Our charity toward it has taken up residence elsewhere,
gone into hiding where we think such children cannot ever find us.
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But we are only crouched behind the windows,
frozen into place like the Japanese cherry trees outside,
held hostage like damsel Nell on cartoon railroad tracks.
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We don't want the cold child inside; we want it gone,
so that we can trek out into the near-warmth again,
see if Wal-Mart has anything left to sell us on time,
defrost our breaths so that, invisible, we don't recognize them,
recall ice-clad children we cannot find again, ever.
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And clear the snow from the gravestones we perpetually tend,
when the weather is fairer.
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*copyright by Jerry Miller, 2011*