Our breath is cold and we can see as we cuss,
Floating on the air, hanging in front of us,
A flimsy, warmless windowed, see-through curtain,
A fire in the kitchen is there for certain,
And within the day, the chopped wood-heap lays bare.
Frost on the lawn, dew on our hair, cold despair,
Our pockets are filled with our cold, frozen hands.
For all, this is what the winter cold demands.
Spread out the hay, hide the flowers, hide the fruit,
Wrap the wool-knitted scarf with the business suit.
The new restless moon, hangs chilly in July,
And we would pin it, unmoving in the sky,
Each night it slowly creeps by and we all each,
Look to see if has anything new to teach.
We sit and watch to see that Venus will rise,
There, nearly in reach, and to each, our surprise
We waited, breath bated, ready for its reprise.
Once, during winter, we travelled to the town,
On a cold thin street, the carriage set us down.
We yelled skyward, with joy, just for arriving,
Although the cold thin street was hardly thriving,
It seemed to be somehow vibrantly alive,
Where urchins of children struggled to survive,
It seemed right that we threw pennies in the air,
Some landed in the gutter, some on the stair,
Some landed, spread all about, some, King side up,
None landed, none handed to the beggars cup.
None would be washed away, from the filthy place,
None would be spent to wash the old beggars face,
None sat long enough to be wet by the rain.
The beggars cup, filled with emptiness and pain,
Abundantly bare. His cup runneth over,
Void, hollow, not a promise of a penny,
Not whispered hope, nor time to talk of any.
And we, in our rugs and coats with pocket full,
Relentlessly drawn to the kitchen fire’s pull,
Do not refrain, and continue to complain,
And towards the winter cold, we show disdain,
But we never ponder the poor beggars lot,
For we take wine and are warming like the pot.
What good is the view of a chill winter moon?
What care has he if Venus rises eastward soon?
On his ground, where pennies aren’t found, the view
Is of the trouser legs, the cane ends, the shoe.
He sees our carriage leave, sees our frosty breath.
He sees the shadowed horses, sleek black like death.
Then his view is back toward his beggars cup,
For pennies are missed, if one is looking up.