Winter Poem

The day is magical but brief. I carry a satchel full of golden papers.
Revealing personal information allows you to be kinder to people
because you don't want them to turn on you. Wellness formula.
The ruggedness of the shortest day of the year. Lately I am in her
dreams more than usual. In one dream I was faster than an eagle,
in another dream I could scoop clouds from the sky like spun sugar.
Or so she said. I would like to appear in your dreams more I said.
Think of a dreary complacent town full of literary yahoos.
Now run away from there and don't look back.
We are diving into our inability to inflict harm on others.
This is an odd time of year to have a crush on warmth.
I think of Spring and how sweet the word tastes on my lips.
Oh gunmetal gray, go all green and wondrous, sparkle
with your showers and move the soil back into thriving.
When I walk, I walk with a certain flare and it shows. Oh Love,
I am not up for shenanigans, I am on my way to work
and it's uphill all the way. What have these days failed
to deliver? What matters? What happens to these days?