February, Brooklyn

February, Brooklyn.

On the way home, the road is frozen.

Yesterday’s snow has seated on the street,

Blaming its misfortune to land on the dark alley.

It has turned itself into

a wide plate of diamond,

glittering in the dark.

I, waddle like a penguin on the,

diamond.

The darkness is thick

and the ice is stubborn,

stubborn like a new homeless.

The snow in February

is annoying, it’s old, it’s enough,

now it’s time for us to long for long

warmth.

I unwelcome you, but you are

unwelcoming me, too,

Actively rejecting my footsteps on your,

diamond.

The darkness is thick, and the snow is,

angry,

like a defensively aggressive homeless.

It’s cold, I want to go home,

I said.

But I want to talk,

the snow said.

But you are too cold to talk to,

I said.

I want to be warm,

the ice said.

And you are too hard to talk to,

I said,

I want to be soft,

the ice said.

I want to be melted,

I want to be warm,

I want to be soft and mellow,

the ice said,

There’s no warmth in words,

there’s no warmth in talks, you should know that,

I said. And stomp!

My nose got warm and your diamond has become

ruby.

But anyway, I’ve arrived home, Safely, again.

Another morning, the air is cold.

I look out the window with a cup of coffee,

watching a group of flies flying from the early morning.

Maybe ten,

no, fifty,

no, hundreds of flies!

What a weird illusion,

I rub my eyes,

drop my coffee,

burn my leg.

And it’s the

snow.

The snow is flying.

The sunlight is spars, and the diamond is

Melting, floating, like it used to...

before.