The Season Feels Infantile

The season feels infantile;
snow diapering the earth.
Busy street lights snoozing
through the night,
while our cycles are
broken by familiar cries,
of sirens blinking warnings
on trees that have long since
withdrawn their limbs.


The season feels infantile;
the rattle of trashcans offers
little diversion, as we search
for our mothers who’ve gone missing
in the catacombs of snow.
We reach our hands to the sky,
yearn for a flurry of colostrum,
anything to protect us,
but the maker’s bosom stays
camouflaged in cumulous,
and fuzzy snow makes static,
blurring all potential remedy.

The season feels infantile;
Don’t know the stranger in the mirror,
so I say hello, I love you—
eyes roll back with a frost nip smile.
Monotony swaddles me
in Saturday’s silence,
as I long to grasp the shortening
of desire, days and destinations.

“Snow” by Harry Nilsson


  1. I’m reading this a second time: it is really a clever poem; things I missed before: ‘colostrum’ ? looked it up: linked to ‘the maker’s bosom’ which links to the title which links to ‘swaddles’ and so on; it’s an intricately conceived poem.

    You will get more comments as you gain more followers. It takes time. I can’t believe where I’ve got to now; but it’s taken three years 🙂

    I look forward to your posts; I know they’re going to be rewarding 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • I wrote this poem yesterday, so it’s still in its infancy, but seemed timely for the current weather and mood here. Thank you for boosting my confidence. Just attempting to manage this yard sale of thoughts is a dream realized for me. Warm regards, John.

      Liked by 1 person

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