in the aftermath
of grey slush,
setting your shovel down.
you ponder selling youryour house.
it's paid for.
you have the pink slip.
it's yours.
why not cash it in and go
to warmer shores.
south, perhaps, where
the oranges grow,
where fish are jumping
out of the sea.
a place where
you can leave your boots
behind,
your hat and scarf,
your gloves.
your bags of salt
and sand.
why stay another minute,
you're wasting time.
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