With the first real snowfall here in Upstate New York and the likelihood that a lot of traditional once-taken-for-granted holiday and winter activities will be skipped or limited this year, I decided to dust off this poem about perspective:

As the light descends,

a lumination seemingly independent of any celestial orb,

pink and dying, numinous, tangible particles of dusk in the terse air,

my visible exhalations providing certitude of existence, however temporary,

however contingent upon the numbing of my toes,

soothing scrape of the snow shovel along the neighbor’s walkway,

each glimmering pile, excavated at the cadence of fraternity, at…

Nicholas Petrone

Born Again Transcendentalist. Writing about life, death and everything in between. Editor of Other Doors. haroldpstinard@gmail.com

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