The Pinks

The folks are tried

Pink, by what has become them

And nearly hairless

In the face of all this winter

And there is a dog on leash

For every one storm which tries to untame man

The pushing wind, trying to unravel a gentleman’s brow

So he steals a wolf

Feeds her indoors

Makes her accustomed to the glowing warmth of an easy chair in front of a fireplace

But still these seasons change

Leaving not what they may regret

Rather

Cycling back

Back to the day which begot you

In this soon warm epiphany’s spring awakening

Giving you itchy feet

And a yearning to see more

The greens and whites and blues which bring back

Nostalgic yet primordial beginnings

To this now

Swollen and awkwardly toned human

Pink from what has become you

Seeking comfort

In this cerebral presence of all.