If I were not already late for work,
Nor strangers were we on each other's path;
If questions smelt much less of creep than quirk,
I'd beg to take of thee a photograph.
Thy jacket colors all around thee ties
Together in aesthetic melodies.

—1/16/18

First Winter Winds

Smells are keener,
Frosted grass.
Wind is leaner,
Shards of glass
Whipping hair
With turbine's grace.
Frozen air
Benumbs my face,
Till at last,
The ancients said
Warmth was past,
The sun was dead,
Yet my favorite
Time of year's
When I cannot
Feel my ears.