Soon, Winter        

 

The gray sea gleams strangely, it is tired tonight, tired of lies told

in air so cold and quiet underneath a surly pair of birches, trees that

stand as still as old arthritic monks, these unholy crusted obfuscators,

more despised than inspiring, lurking scoundrels who swear and steer

 

the Curonian Spit’s single ferry like failed businessmen across a murky span

of saltwater to nearby Klaipede where time is more a snail than earthworm

or sleekish snake, and you, my dear, squirm warily with silver spoon well

 

in hand, as hot beetroot soup in a porcelain bowl stares at your languid,

beery eyes.

 

Oh, how these brownish oval orbs but record and report the rigid facts before conspiring to rightly seal their partnered fate and shut tightly against
the metallic Baltic’s frigid, encroaching tide!