Poetry

Walking to the Bus Stop

      Fingers skim the dripping limbs
   that line the path. It’s cold again.
She tramples a thousand red cloaks

      that litter the yards and vanish beneath
   the mist. Her dangling bootlaces
dance in wintery pools.

      A vague warm feeling crosses her
   when she stops to watch the mail truck
splashing down the way. Her caramel

      hair smells of slain pine while the cold
   renders her face afire. She studies a
mailbox wrapped with garland.

      It mutely wonders if it looks cute.
   Somewhere a cat is talking with
a door. She tries to paste some

      red petals to the branches but
   the trees refuse them. She stares
into the grey and ponders the puddles.

      Her limbs drip in the forest, an
   awkward alabaster sculpture
that smells of winter pine.

One thought on “Walking to the Bus Stop”

  1. Alojamiento web says:

    When I stopped by yesterday, I saw that the platforms are also taking shape, as workers install pavers and tactile warning strips at the edge of the platforms similar to those at L stations. Underneath the pavers are electric heating coils, which will help keep the bus stops clear of snow this winter.

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