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Early Winter
The door closes behind me.
I am out in the cold,
bombarded by baby hail.
Not snowflakes. No way.
No delicacy, no lacy six-pointed flakes,
each different from the next.
No, none of that soft stuff today
but millet-sized bullets,
miniature kamikaze pilots
whose death-wishing efforts
plunge them to earth
but not before they pass like tiny meteors
before my eyes.
I plow on, leaning into the barrage,
and see the pellets intercepted
by my presence.
They collect in the wrinkles
of my watermelon-pink winter jacket.
Fiercely they fall,
aiming for the extremity of blizzard
but they lack the numbers and energy for that.
Falling hard onto the ground
they melt immediately
leaving barely a wet spot
to remember them by.
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