Chilly Con
Bitter, bitter, bitter
not as in a taste on tongue
or unrequited loves' remain,
only of wind thats wrung
all warmth from the air.
Bitter, bitter, bitter
all the way through to bone,
clenching chattering teeth,
and breath blown
on mittened hands.
Shine of sun to deceive
beckons one out of doors
brain has an idea of sun
that roars
away outside
caught in bitter's bite.
Copyright © Sue Mason | Year Posted 2007
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