it's not
the ice on the windshield,
or the wind
or the lifeless
leafless
trees shivering
arthritically
in the woods,
nor is it
these gloves or boots,
or wrapped
scarf around
my neck.
it's more than that,
this February
morning that makes me
want to pack it in,
head south,
toss the old clothes
into a waste basket
not unlike
the midnight cowboy
and lie
in the sunshine
for a thousand
years.
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