A check from the ice and snow covered north
signed in purple ink that I cannot in faith sign
arrives into the temperate zone of my palms
waved in a slight northern invasion of sunlight.
Once, in the freezing rain, with breath expired
in an aspiration of slippery delight, I closed the
shiny door of an emerald car, mirrors befogged
in anticipation of a warm slide into icy blackness.
That icy blackness never happened despite the
false certainty that grows in winter that spring
will never erupt in green shoots from the black.
A wee leek curled in slumber can be coldly cruel.
Now, the winnings from another life unwrapped
scream from a previous scratch that left little
crumbies on the quarter and the oak marbled
table, marbles gone but the crumbies remain.