Thirty-one

frozen pipes -        
cinnamon tea
burns my tongue

Thirty

winter wind     whips my weary face

Twenty-nine

no lights

or garland swags,

but this snow

and the crowds

on the streets of Chicago

remind me of

Christmas

Twenty-eight

playing catch-up
to the tune of the space heater -
two a.m.

Twenty-seven

writing in bed    my left hand falls asleep

Twenty-six

I curse the alarm. The sun also rises.