Three below zero- <br />sunrise. The platform. <br />I breathe my scarf <br />and spit to remove <br />acrylic fiber from my tongue. <br />Neither saliva nor time freezes <br />before it hits the ground. <br /> <br />Ten minutes late, <br />the train shatters <br />invisible frost barriers <br />and cherished notions <br />about time's perceived immobility. <br />I scowl at the sun and the train <br />and all reminders of forward motion. <br /> <br />Four months remain, <br />and time melts to indulge Dali. <br />Frosty runoff sweeps <br />pages from the calendar; <br />but, I long to return to the biting wind, <br />the taste of my scarf, <br />and that icy dawn when I realized <br />how numb I have become to warmth.<br /><br />Christopher Parcels<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-point/
