Snow Smells Fresh

Climbing high, high, high,
the mounds of white collapse onto concrete beds.
Heads freeze within seconds,
wind bites cheeks and toes,
while burned wood whistles in the alley.
Way, way, out on the street,
sweepers spread salt,
saturating the cracks and crevices.
It is gray around town,
the morning sun hides behind tumbling cumulus clouds,
folding within themselves.
Shout!
We call the parade towards the lake,
mistaking the noise for celebration,
not pain.
if ice-skaters dance in the harsh night,
and hoodlums hound the haughty underpass,
then maybe the day will come.
Yes,
it may come
someday.

An Open Invitation

Look at the mind, tapered off the edge of a dusty surface, hoping to be pumped full of iron so it can dream a dream that it wished to dream days ago. I wish to fly, it says, whimpering like a child who has lost his piece of chocolate. It is neglected, not fed, and distraught about all the doings, and comings, and goings that fiercely press-on around it. I wish to soar! It cries, being stepped on by mountains and valleys, and ragged boulders, colliding with the astronomical quandaries that bound it to the ground. All along it crawled beneath the ground, hoping to one day lift its head off the dirt and mold, and scum that resides at the surface. It loves it. It loves the dirt, the scum, and the mold for its being. It only wishes to understand more, it can't do that lying face down. I want to live! It screams, scattering the thespians, movers, and shakers who proudly call ignorance home. It will all burn down one day, then maybe they will wake up, and then it can fly, and soar, and dream. It rests on the mountain top now, hoping to find solace in the earth and in the sky. But, it must rest, and escape. It isn't time to speak, since there are no ears to hear.