the death of late december
and so it has arrived
in all its glorious finality
slowing all good things down
some to an inevitable halt
no winter is the same
each returning with an agenda
colt forty-five concealed at the hip
cradling the rifle like a baby
setting traps on ponds & streams
frozen solid to the naked eye
encouraging & enticing
there is nothing left to fear
indeed you’ve reached
the end of the line [again]
exposed but not exhausted
you search for another way out
january two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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