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Warmth

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Mon Nov 28th, 2016

Gazing at blackbird on deck-side table

during cold November, tree-stripped drizzle

when dark clouds lower with dour bluster,

I like to warm my feet under cover

as I recollect childhood memories

of dim defeats and welcome victories

over obstacles armed with precedent

now buried in the muck of incident.

 

Time is indeed a fickle instrument

like barometer or thermometer.

We would prefer to transcend time and fate,

to defeat failure, indifference, hate.

Yet all we can give children is advice,

forlornly hoping constant love will suffice.