Winters

This is draft poem #3, published here for your comments and feedback.

Winters
by Paul Warloski

I.
She breathed
frozen air through
a blue scarf

stuffing mail
into metal boxes
held tight by

nails on
ice-covered
walls.

II.
She pulled
her gloves off
to smile

and greet
the stranger she
came to meet

to talk
drink coffee,
and sip soup.

III.
Fingers shake
in cold caffeine
waiting until

morning warms
the frozen sidewalks
bathed with black ice

that melts into
puddles of chocolate
morning mud.

IV.
Being a poet
is no worse
than delivering

mail on a Monday
in rain, snow,
and, and sometimes,

hails of words
showering the morning
in coffee cups.

copyright 2009 by Paul Warloski