Winter Winter Winter

Winter just wouldn’t end. The snow would melt, turning street corners into lakes of muddy brown water, so wide and large, you’d sometimes have to wait for a wrinkled old man floating on a cardboard pontoon to ferry you across. Then there’d be another dumping, three feet deep, and you’d trudge down the sidewalk, in the single file foot prints of those who came before.

Maybe on some mornings, when you’d rather be warming in bed, pinned under heavy blankets with a dog-eared paperback and hot coffee full of sugar, you ‘d think that might be a metaphor for something.

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2 thoughts on “Winter Winter Winter

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