Phone Note Poetry: Installment 2

Spring Morning

On this spring morning icy pellets swirl, the sharp edge of yesterday's wind intimidates, urges me to turn around, seek warmth, stay inside. I walk anyway, cold burns my skin, fists draw into jacket sleeves, ears cower beneath an old woman's crochet headband--not my style--but full of sentiment. Each block I consider the return trip home until my mind floats free, bouncing from word collection to story and back again. On this spring morning, the sky wakes, and I say, "I am here."