Storm

This vestibule is warm

In stark contrast

To the howling wind and snow outside.

A lonely and dry leaf swirls and spirals

In the wind.

Outside the plate-glass door.

The Taxi does not come.

I wait longer.

My Love….

My Love awaits

Across the Barrens of this landscape.

I am trapped.

Boxes heavy in my hands

As I watch past footprints fade in the wind.

The Taxi does not come.

No one is walking, too harsh a clime.

I am fond of Mother Nature for her gifts

But I do not like her Humour.

My Love….

My Love awaits.

The Taxi does not come.

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