65 years on,
how it hates to be compared
with new battle cries.

they see you as blue,
which oversimplifies the
fibers you comprise.

(close up)

the morning whispers,
a subtle message prone to
interpretation.

the December chill
has finally arrived, just
in time for winter.

what I like of you
is the uniform rhythm
of your slender hand.

atmospheric plunge;
forty degrees in just twelve
short hours – so cold.

running out of things
to complain about is an
odd complaint to have.