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Friday, February 25, 2011
I cursed the snow
from the curved out well
of an ancient fir
having just landed
in the one tiny place
lacking enough snow
to cushion my fall
Angel of Harlem
ran through my head
while a ticklish thread of blood
ran down the back of it
How will this shade of red
look on my scarf?
And what’s Bono doing here
floating among all of these stars?
But survival has a way
of changing our outlook
and since a few years have passed
I want the heavens to open up
and send us the mother
of all snow days
~ J. D. Mackenzie
--------------------
A poem sent in by an LBCC student in the spirit of our winter weather.
from the curved out well
of an ancient fir
having just landed
in the one tiny place
lacking enough snow
to cushion my fall
Angel of Harlem
ran through my head
while a ticklish thread of blood
ran down the back of it
How will this shade of red
look on my scarf?
And what’s Bono doing here
floating among all of these stars?
But survival has a way
of changing our outlook
and since a few years have passed
I want the heavens to open up
and send us the mother
of all snow days
~ J. D. Mackenzie
--------------------
A poem sent in by an LBCC student in the spirit of our winter weather.
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