you attempt

to live the day
without metaphor,
the ice you scrape
off your window
does not represent
the small
difficulties of
your life. and
the flowers on
the side of the road
confused and up
in strange warm
weather are not
hope, or love.
and the moutains
in the distance,
blue and folded
over into grey are
not places, or
heights that you
will never reach.
they are just
mountains. the
bridges that you
cross, are just
that, too.