Contributor: John Grey

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Don't waste a bitter wind,
a killing frost,
icy cracked lips,
trembling hands,
and cheeks transparent blue.

Why fight the mistral cold
with self-delusion,
struggle to calm
the rattle of nerves
on a piercing moonless night.

For a man cold as corpses,
mid-winter should be
a master whispering to you
with brumal belligerence,
instructions eager to freeze.

The grass is dead,
the air seared clean of oxygen,
while in the graveyard shadow
of tattered brush,
meager creatures nibble their last supper.

Understand, all creatures are meager.
And all their complaining of the cold,
their rush down dark alleys lo be home and warm,
is nibbling.

You are the ice-man.
You have the strength
of fifty January blizzards,
the mind of twenty five below,
the numbing hands to
snatch the sorry meal away,
from underneath their frigid tongues.

So trek off into the snow,
the wilderness.
The feast is foremost
and your heart awaits.


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John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.