Cold as a Muscle, by Misky

Cold as a Muscle
by Misky

There’s an assassin at the heart of the winter, it’s a cold muscle, forcing itself on everything. The chairs and the wrought iron table are up against the wall, upended and blown away. Frost covers the grass. Snow covers the roses. Ice covers the creek. Children are skating on it every day. The creek’s only a few inches deep at this time of year. Even the heart of water has shrunk. Assassins, assassins everywhere.

Sun hangs low as birds
Pecking at the grass, the sun
Cold as a muscle

Misky lives in the UK, surrounded by fields and hills, flowers, and vineyards. She never buys clothing without pockets. Her poetry and prose are widely published, and regularly featured in Ten Penny Players monthly publications, and Visual Verse. Her photography is published with Unsplash.


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