What Happens Next
Another night with the frost,
she says, and you’ll know
the half-life of cold.
Which is not to say enjoy,
or pity, or pretend.
It is the sheath of God’s
gaze, an unsuspected lump.
The harvested curse.
You grasp what happens next.
“What Happens Next” first appeared here in November 2017.
O at the Edges 
So much easier to grasp after-the-fact … weather & everything else
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My clairvoyance is sadly lacking…
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Striking. Minds me of approach of death. But maybe that’s just my mood impressing the sense. I like it though.
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Thanks, Rob. It’s open to interpretation, of course. I like your thought.
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Thanks. It’s pretty, either way. My kind of writing.
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Or I just encountered that frost, and it left me alone. And the cold left alone, me, is all that could be harvested, alone. Is there more?
I think this is a horrible, but amazing piece. Regardless whether I read it right or not. Amen.
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My greatest hope, with any poem, is to elicit some sort of emotional response from the reader. There is no right or wrong, and my intent doesn’t matter, as truth lies with the readers’ feelings/interpretations.
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So very insightful
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Thanks very much, Derrick.
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