dead of winter
the most january day
i have ever seen
stiffened over me in the grey
of afternoon, thick
as old mittens stitched
together, and i was nothing
but a slow pulse
beneath the floe
of an impenetrable heaven,
and every hope was a god
out icefishing, his lure
descending from a thin cylinder
of light, and the sky
grew cloudy
with the breath of old souls
who took the bait,
their grave faces pressed
against the icy underbelly
of the most january day
i have ever seen
mareymercy. 
I always love it when really good poems start and end the same way — it’s like Bebop (Jazz of the 1950’s.) Love this: “their grave faces pressed
against the icy underbelly
of the most january day
i have ever seen”
Thanks!
This is so beautiful, so many of the lines continue to stay with me.
And I am keeping this, Cynthia:
“every hope was a god
out icefishing”
Thank you!
I feel the mittens and that is what good poetry is all about.
Thanks! I did write this one driving home from work on one hell of a gray, cold January day.
hummmm…. very nice! I loved it.
Thanks so much!
I like how the metaphor carries through with the way you use January things to describe the world (the mittens, the fishing, etc.), makes it indeed believable that it’s the most January day ever. And if those old souls are up there pressed against the grey like fish under ice, where does that leave us?
We’re the suckers who’re next in line to take the bait!