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And in the Winter, extra blankets for the cold, fix the heater (getting old)

We had a sliding patio door of glass.
February frozen.
Final, ’til the spring.
A poor insulator,
it grew small spires of frost, even inside.
Like so many iron filings
straining to a magnet, only white.
Quarter inch runnels of ice said we were locked in, for now.
I stand in pajamas.
Run fingernails down,
bunching cold cakes of whiteness under each.
A throwback to my ten year old self,
I make a squeaky wipe on the fogged glass,
and peer into the next dimension.
Minus thirty says the little red thermometer,
as a tiny grey-brown visitor swoops in and lands on the windswept stones.
How can these wee birds, with toes smaller than a pencil lead,
not freeze in an instant?
So thin, so small, nothing to eat.
I run and get bread, and the hair dryer.
Thaw the frosty door, pull it open with a groan.
Scare little buddy away, but I toss the bread anyway.
I think he went to tell the others.
In five minutes, it’s party time.

Lee Dunn View All

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

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