(and that)

I can hear winter getting ready to yell
into our faces, it powders and breaks
out in patches on car windows,

in splotches of fractal, untamed mandalas.
I can feel it coming to get me and
throw a snowball of ice into my brittle

and redder than usual face. To add soft
temporary white freckles to my burgundy
and hazel ones, to my orange ones. I can

see the dogs getting shaggier and their eyes
cooling, over-running then stopping for owner.
In the orchestral march of the stripped branches,

curling around the street like hands to a mouth,
about to devour the whole street, into the blinding
stomach of another dead, long and bitter winter.

She builds her army of men, fat but wiry, as
those in kitchen work lean into the stove now,
and the butchers add a layer, and grandmothers
stay home and do bingo on the radio, never winning.

I can feel it in my feet, too. Like a crypt-escaped
skeleton, I curl up when stationary without even
realizing I am doing it, I have no fascination with it,
I just watch it come in the morning, and after the sun,
again.

It is killing me, this season.
The season, and All That.