The snow is sinking in, literally too. The bottoms of my favorite jeans are soaked and my shoes follow them very quickly, the wet fabric sticking to the once dry shoes. The arc of the insoles and the outside line of my shoes get the most wet. I feel that I have to change clothes twice a day to avoid the cold. Not that I don’t partially welcome it.  

The outside isn’t quite cold enough that I don’t get sweaty on my way to class, frantically removing my jackets when I get inside. My water and wind proof layer gets zipped down much earlier in the journey, but the sweatshirt stays on because it’s too hard to remove it while still walking, no bench or patch of ground is dry enough to hold my backpack.  

 A poem without format:

I spoke up in class today, regretting not planning out my script exactly. I wish I had the blind confidence of people who care not about the opinions of anyone but themselves. But then I’d depend on the approval of my worst critic, the one who truly knows my faults and can weaponize them, knowing which swords cut the deepest, knowing where to aim. years of practice sharpening daggers, throwing them easily. Time spent on learning archery, finding an unending supply of arrows. 

Neglected pockets: 

Full of lost items 

the coin change from a candy shop in 1973 

2 pennies and a nickel saved in the first pocket 

for the next time you bought your daughter sweets, 

the ticket stub from the only time you left the house 

to watch the movie with her for the near last time, 

the lint collected through years of use 

too small a pocket to hold anything but  

forgotten promises and empty tomorrows, 

you know she’s not gone, just lost  

the last pocket empty, waiting for be filled and forgotten