When Winter Comes to the South
and the winds bristle your neck hair
as the cold of 50 degrees creeps up,
snatching you into misery with an icy grip,
when the sea becomes slightly uncomfortable,
but still swimmable.
When we conjure imagined icesicles
and every day bound to the window
to search for even a flake of snow
that might make our environ uninhabitable
our roads non-negotiable
and our homes warm bunkers against the coming blizzard.
Posted on November 25, 2013, in Charleston, Poems, Poetry, Writing and tagged Charleston, Derek Berry, poem, poetry, spoken word, The South, winter, word salad, writing. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.