Winter Song
We jumped out our front doors
slid across the porch—not yet vitiated
by the cold—pummeled each other
with stories mostly centered
with stories mostly centered
on our youngest dreaming selves. Before
the chill cut through our meat—
hit the bones—we grasped one another’s
hands and bent our heads
in a busker’s Thank You. Our whole lives
we waited for a suit
to drop a dollar in the bucket.
How is it anyway that there is a resilience
in the performance? If we were to kiss
now in the freezing rain
could we absorb
a meteorological knowing—
filter it through our chattering teeth
finding that the hoods of our lips
couldn’t contain the joy?
Work-scarred
leathery hands of a cloud
reaching down—
Eric Larsh is a writer and musician living in Portland, Oregon. He is currently serving as poetry co-editor for Portland Review. His writing can be found at Maudlin House, The Daily Drunk, and elsewhere online. His noise wall recordings can be found at universalhealthcare.bandcamp.com. Instagram: @the_meanestguy.
