Outrun 15 Below

                        I left the gate open

                        when I plowed snow

                        at 15 below

                        then wrote an essay.

                        I walk up the snow-curved hill,

                        dance to avoid

                        pine trees' unloaded snow,

                        shut the cold green metal gate.

                        Cold seeps through my clothing.

                        I trot down the new, squeaking snow,

                        try to outrun cold at 15 below,

                        shut the door against 15 below,

                        play winter songs on a warm guitar,

                        through winter windows watch snow fall

                        Cold lingers in my boots

                        half the musical afternoon.