Pneumonia Weather

January 31, 1995|By Madeleine Mysko

A warm front mops the sky,

Wads of clouds moving briskly

Above the rooftops and

chimneypots.

Lunch hour, we must be out of

doors,

Heading for the little park

With its stripped trees and

hedges.

Up and down the street, the

buildings

Are simply taken with sun --

Brick and stone coloring, every

feature unfolding

(Ledge, lintel, pillar, cornice) in

afternoon light.

We're warmer out than in.

We perspire in our coats.

Halfway down the block,

hatless and unzipped,

We get lost in an updraft of

time --

What season is this, so balmy

out of turn?

How sweetly it takes us by the

throat,

Leading us around the next

corner

Into shadow

And a sudden chill.

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