The hockey puck of winter
has scored a goal awaiting
the next center court face-off,
me, the cold, and my thermals.
Somewhere in the world
there is a beach with white sand.
Somewhere there is a balmy breeze
giving bare skin a tropical kiss.
The locals wear next to nothing,
hiding what remains behind Pino Coladas.
The only danger to existence
an occasional falling coconut.
A hard freeze has set in,
I tremble for the woodland creatures.
They know nothing about hockey,
or far away azure oceans and surf.
They trust their instincts
not knowing or caring about one
of the innumerable gods that has
brought this winter wrath upon them.
They do not fight over beliefs,
foreclosures, Christmas credit bills,
infidelity, muggings, rapes, irate
road raged drivers or incompetent
leaders, their need is a hunkering down
into the cycle of survival.
We could learn from them, view them
as more knowledgeable than we mortals.
The simplicity of their lives a mirror
of selection, the eons of experience
ingrained, protected by instincts, and
that great universal existence,waiting,
watching, gently tuning the clock
of eternity and evolution.
Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour