Winter Is

An English accent on the train.  A silent goose, British temperament, dry humor, wet feet and the rain.   Winter is not a structured verse.  It's a pile-up.  Things stacked one on top of the other.  Over and over again.  Little things over time.  Things thrown in the morning, sugar-coated.  Things learned, things yearned for.  Idyllic dreams of bi-planes, ocean-cliff houses, skating and scalability, and climbing up to reach an end.  It's funny how much of a dream one can retain when writing it down.  It always starts poetic.

Though when one comes to think, really think on it, it's random.  It's madness.  It's a firework show of subconscious synapses.  It's a winter storm.  Coming down from the mountains and the redwood, coming across the sea.  Blankets of rain, storm surges, laid waste tidal falls, piling up on a naked soul.  There's never any money in the winter.  I'm just beginning to realize that.  It's a season of dependency.  When one discovers what one really needs, and what one can do without.  It's heavy on the shoulder, winter.  It either breaks a man, or it makes a man stronger.  But it comes every year.  Sometimes twice, depending on the hemisphere and the timing of travel.  This was a two winter year.