Chill

Outside our thick locked door, the air grows cold.
Fall plays songs of loss. For an encore, cold.

Cascade of tangerine and neon pink –
The dying sun departs in splendor. Cold

nights for the too-long married. The furnace
breaks. More than metaphor – the air grows cold.

Poe writes his dead love back to him, despite
the tiresome raven’s Nevermore, cold

and final. Waves swallow the sand. Sun sets.
How long will stubborn swimmers ignore cold?

The power of love versus the might of
power. Who’s stronger, Venus or Thor? Cold,

hot, cold, hot — Our wounded planet revolts.
Flood. Drought. Plastic-filled whales wash ashore. Cold.

Grandma’s crooked fingers, Cossack-blue eyes.
Gold chain she always wore. The air grows cold

near gravestones. Too late to learn her secret
Anatevka dreams. Carved letters store cold.

Ukrainian bride strips off her wedding
gown, puts on the uniform of war. Cold

metal in her hand. Poets sip the Green
Fairy, enter delicious stupor, cold.

The old unfold chairs and umbrellas. Teens
sprawl tanning on the sand, all languor, cold

beauty. Truckers wave swastika flags. Books
are burned in churches. The hungry implore cold

gods. In Stone’s empress daydream, two laws: Have
mercy. Plant seeds before the air grows cold.