One more poem

Slow Walking Through Winter

Setting out on a tired afternoon,
Hauling exhausted flesh between cities,
I can sit and watch Winter pad
And grin at me like a cold hungry dog.

Though I am poor pickings this season.
My flesh is thin, my skin weak
And far too soft for chewing.
But winter long ago dropped off its tongue.

Fools fly after fits and fevers,
As if they were coherent creatures,
With soul and breath enough to whisper to them.
Madnesses cannot be picked and chosen like fruit.

Steel frows brittle and weak in this cold.
Fresh flowers wither quickly.
But wood, even if cut off from it's roots,
Survives and ages gracefully.

Dips it's tongue deep
In what water it finds
And wraps around itself
The dark comfort of melancholy.