Jack G Bowman

Still in Winter

He falls, once again, worn out, poor balance

on cold, grimy, off colored cement,

with gravel particles again

taking scratched flesh and material

 

he reaches up a hand to see passerbys in their dark shaded hats

and woolen coats

not one, whose eyes promise March or April

not one look, that says May or June

only now, only coldness,

in their stress, their paces

their limestone and ash faces

he pulls himself up, feels knees bleed

grateful for the warmth of even that,

knowing inside

somewhere

 

is spring.