I opened my window <br />and the cold blasted through <br />sending books <br /> toppling <br /> from my desk, <br /> <br />snow riddled hardbacks <br />lay open like mouths <br />with crumpled tongues of page, <br /> <br />there was nothing outside <br />but winter <br />and the bleached cloak <br />of whitefall <br />about this <br />beat down <br />city, <br /> <br />and when <br />I pulled <br />the window closed <br />all I saw was <br />the battered mug <br />of a man sick-of- <br />it-all <br />which masked <br /> the soul-bits <br /> of boy-heart <br /> and longing-to- <br /> feel-alive, <br /> <br />this golden beard <br />that grow <br /> down <br />toward my feet <br />and further still <br />with ear <br />to wisdom <br />and eyes still <br />as those of beast <br />and glistening back <br />into all-of-this- <br />as-me, <br /> <br />and yet to dance <br />behind my eyelids <br />in black <br /> and dream <br /> and wish, <br /> <br />but lay now about this <br />bed of face <br />and in the wet <br />to one day dry <br />against these <br />thoughts.<br /><br />Eric Hamilton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/february-shmebruary/
