incandescent bulbs on the verge of exploding.
ripping through the heavens like tiny white meteors.
Parisians whip their umbrellas open in a mad rush,
force-fields to keep the wayward snowflakes at bay.
The snow is terrible but nothing like back home
where the bitter cold squeezes your soul like a vice.
I keep my soul in a fur-lined case in the boreal forests of Canada.
December 3, 2010