Herban Poetry

Coming Out from the Cold

A chilly November morning

On the outside

Cacophonous flecks of cold fall on my shoulder

From above

I stand in silence, stoic and untempered

On the inside

I bundle up the pile of what was once life,

Changed and choked by the cold conditions,

And stuff them away

Flecks grow louder and more biting

My shoulders grow heavy

So do my eyes

But I won’t rest, and I won’t quit

Until I’ve bundled up and thrown away all of the…

Waste—I guess that’s what it is now.

It’s not an easy job and it’s largely thankless

But my older brothers had to do it

And so do I

Another pile, another inch

Another mile to go.

I won’t complain, and I won’t slow

If they could do it,

Then so can I.

I distract myself with pleasant thoughts

On the inside.

Warm and cozy

A fireplace and a blanket

Another world, another time

Until Ice falls in piles, calling for attention

bombarding my body

I hear the crash but no flinch

On the outside

Just like my brothers

But am i?

I grab the next pile and discard it

Not pausing to ponder on handfuls

 of what was once living

Stuffed away systematically

I don’t pause, I don’t think

It makes it harder

I brave the cold, and do my job

Weathering the weather.

The cold is vicious and volatile

But finally, my hands are numb

As dead as the waste

That they shove away

I wonder if my brothers grew numb

Or am I weaker?

Like an answer to my question

On the inside

The cold approaches fierce and deafening

I stand stoic and untempered

On the outside.

“Boy, didn’t I tell you to go get those leaves up?”

The Ice yells at me.

Silently, I answer

I make my way into the warmth

Smiling on the outside because

For a while I get to take up a new job,

An easier one.

When I’m outside

 I’m finally away from the cold.