Thursday, January 28, 2016
by Jim Rapp
It is thirty-two degrees outside,
predicted to go much higher.
The snow will soon no longer hide
last summer’s sin; the fire
wood left unsplit, uncorded,
soft now with rot; worm ridden.
At least snow had accorded
earth the look of pristine Eden.
Perhaps a February blizzard
will cover our sins again;
give us twenty-nine more laggard
days to grab a book and snuggle in.