Blizzard

What is "home,"
but a mere slip of the tongue?

Lush with the hope of a sudden spring,
my mind leaps manically from page to page,
eagerly awaiting the marigold streaks of sun
to grace me with their presence.

The days stretch slowly, lazy and feeble,
the first yawn of a murky sunrise hushed
with the cold shush of the wind,
a zephyr,
slipping quietly through town.

Home is where the heart is,
or so they say,
so where is my home if my heart
is wrapped in a quilt of sandpaper
and tossed into a fire?

Must I wreak havoc in the pits of hell?
or should I kiss the naked coals and swallow
ash, unafraid of my burnt larynx?

Nay;
I will lay down and eat myself with time,
the long hours picking at my skin:
a crow on my back, the debt monkey.
The robin's song tastes sour in my mouth.

Thus until I breathe in
the warm scent of lilacs and digest
the sullen truths of midsummer,
I am a bird, a white bird,
soaring through a blizzard.