WINTER STROLL

My lips are chapped and split
as if hit by the fist
of an icy pugilist,
this Arctic apparition
that approaches on a
winter wind-chill
where gloves, hat and boots
render nil.

My mind meanders to a
mystical, mythical
Saint Bernard
brandishing brandy,
in a canister collar
to warm my innards.

I stroll in this solstice
sun-slung-low day.
My séance with Nature
as ancestral sounds play.

©TPuma/Winter ’13.