The Garden City (Chicago - a winter tale)

i lay in bed this morning with my eyes focused on my picture frame window,

meditating to the sounds of winds howling,

snow falling,

peacefully trapped in a surreal moment like a firefly caught in a jar.

Rising to February's freezing breath,

I slowly pressed my fingertips against the clear glass, and felt the coldness of today; wondering if that was really the essence of reality penetrating through my skin, or just the temporary feeling of what happens when you let flesh linger against the essence of now.

Using my bedroom walls as my only protection,

i couldn't help but feel like a character in a snow globe, fully shaken, as a snowstorm whispered my name, waiting to find me.

i felt my hand slowly slip down as my arm tried to fight the oncoming deep coma,

acting as the symbol of my signature's existence and marking the validity of winter's shadow,

i laid back down in my bed this morning with my eyes focused on my picture frame window, yet i couldn't see the snow, i couldn't imagine the cold.

i could only focus on a lost hand print....