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Note: Deep breaths here as I post a poem. That’s not usually my comfort zone, but because of people like my brother, Jay, the encouragement of friends, especially Tony, and my love, my wife, Duffy, I am finally pursuing my long neglected love of writing. Realizing that the poem below may possibly be the worst kind of schlock or just not very good is not really as important as just the act of hitting “Publish Post”. Reconnecting with my creativity, and working hard to sharpen it, requires a certain, previously lacking, fearlessness in the face of failure. One needs to know and have slapped into his thick head, his absolute limits as a writer. I think I have a chance to learn my boundaries and be a pretty good writer by the time I am 70 or so. So, please free to comment below. “Not My Cup of Tea.” is as helpful as, “Meh.” Consider carefully whether or not you ever want to see another piece of poetry of mine again, before handing out any compliments. That could be really dangerous. A good winter, to you and yours.

The Bowing

by Jeff Veazey

Winter is winter, until it becomes a number.

This one is harder,

like the first unyielding winter up north,

like the snap of a limb of an old friend.

Falling ice, empty shelves and gas pumps,

the loss of power.

We worry about the birds – and the bees.

Remember the ice storm of ‘76?

That one was worse-

it was easier, but it was worse.