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Poetic License: ‘Cold Winter Morn on Sanibel’

By Staff | Jan 28, 2020

Joe Pacheco

For blood grown thin

forty Fahrenheit is Siberia;

breezes suddenly blue

and brittle

shiver through citrus leaves;

a birdsong

bleak and off-key

chills our sense;


pale and tentative,

shelters us from shade

where wisps of vapor

from our mouths recall

northern winter breath

thicker than cigarette smoke,

that reminds us:

Death owns a time share here

and watches,

dressed in warm-ups,

from his lanai.