there is nothing to do, nothing to say
nothing like the nothingness of the cold
wind that blows across and about the way.
empty as the soup-filled lives of the old,
as silent as the soft white snow that falls
on the roofs of the houses and the tips
of the grass, and inside these old brick walls
the children's breath puffing like red steam ships
mimics the gray smoke of those who only
smoke when under stress or when there's nothing
else to do or say. The people, heat-lonely,
wait for the power, the light, everything
they can't live without. A knock at the door
brings good tidings: heat is here, hear its roar!
gina prettybrowneyes
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nothing-118/
