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being alive, creative writing, escape, life, sharing, spilled ink, spilled thoughts, spilled words, thoughts, words, writer, Writing
I love the feeling of chilled air entering my lungs, the breathless, full, expanse.
Catching my throat as if by surprise. Frigidness seeping to the depths of my chest.
Needing to quickly exhale plumes of steam, that drifts whispily into nothing.
The cold pinches my ears, exposed and quickly sore, I pull my velvet cap down to cover.
“You look stupid, silly, with your hat like that” my head chides,
“I don’t care! My poor ears! Why did I forget my scarf?” My practical soul replies.
Fingers slowly curling and creeping up the sleeves of my coat, gloves forgotten too.
I trudge on, red suede boots silently covering the miles.
My mind working through the thoughts that crush it, silent alone time making sense of the madness.
©️ Juliette Turrell
Juliette Turrell 
“Fingers slowly curling and creeping up the sleeves of my coat, gloves forgotten too…” Oh, boy, this imagery is just perfect! So vivid, and I can’t tell you how many times my fingers have done the same! 😀 This is a delightful poem, Juliette. There’s nothing quite like a deep breath of crisp air to clear the mind. 🙂
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Thank you so much Mike, I feel a bit of a fraud as it was a balmy 4°c 🥶
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this poem has a nice, easy rhythm to it like one going for an amble: but you nail the cold and your Pavlovian reaction to it precisely 🙂
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Thank you John. I walked to the coffee shop and thought of my experience in the comfort of the warmth and with a large latte. Much easier to cobble together a poem when coffee is involved 😅
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so true 🙂
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