monk robes hang
below shrugged on parka
tattered hem soaked heavy
in clinging ice
bare monk feet
wellington warm
ploughing through crusted snow
temple dog runs back up the trail
at the next gusty cold wind blast
---
mitts on vents
sweaters over chairs
robe dries slowly by the kitchen fire
remnant snow boot puddles disappear
leaving only a few salt rings
I can feel all of winter in your poem. I love it, Ollie. Glad the temple dog is doing well. Smiles.
ReplyDeleteMonk knows winter! In the present, but takes us back to images of childhood--mittens. Kids always live winter best. Brilliant start to the new year.
ReplyDeleteStill no hair shirts my friend? You really can feel winter in this one, very nice and try to keep warm.
ReplyDelete