Poem, aborted

[carose59]

Poem, aborted

It's cold.
I wake up, and see the snow.
I've been asleep a long, long time
and I ask the nurse, "Is it Christmas yet?"
The windows are enormous, frost-etched.
Alone in the infirmary,
I want my own sheets
I want to decorate the tree.
"It's nearly spring," she tells me
but I know--spring will feel like Frostbite Falls
no flowers this year
no thaw.
Christmas is over
and the lights are gone.
But the days get no longer;
they haven't the strength to fight gravity.
The nights get no warmer;
everything is ice.
I close my eyes and listen to a radio
just slightly off-station.