Quietly, Hopefully

to say that everything is encased in ice is hyperbole, and not particularly poetic. but it's only ever shortly after the fact that I realized how much I miss warm skin bird singing picnic days. and it is beautiful. like a scrubbed and scary folktale by Hans Christian Anderson. I do long for days stretched out on scented tapstries, alone with a musty penguin novel at the beach. and I do wish back longingly, look back lovingly, though I don't want to live presently on road trips with cigarettes and strangers. my life is sweet. and I am just going to wait, or maybe meditate. so I don't have to remember when and wish I cared more. The snow piles higher outside the windows and it's friday and I'm healthy, and that's enough.