It's warm enough
to
bring down the windows―
drive
as if it were spring.
Wind
swims upstream
through
my hair,
like
a shoal of narrow pickerel,
smearing
their sticky eggs
in
my shallow parts,
pausing
here and there
to
mouth my face,
suck
any evidence of winter
from
my surface.
tk/February 2013
 |
| Wind of History, Jacek Yerka |
