Blustery winds gust,
Daring me to retreat home.
Bundled, I persist.
A sick day in bed –
Clouds floating by my window,
And clouds stuff my head
Bodies buried deep
in blankets, tissues and coughs,
This hushed and sick house.
Last little snow mound
Unmelting, dirty, and gray
Stubbornly solid.
Plastic bags aloft,
Urban flocks spiraling up,
lift towards the sky.
Art and politics
Will walk together only if we
move with open hearts,
Such visions we see
When we at last lift our eyes
from tasks that weigh us.
Is there still stubborn snow where you are?