What a Soul Is

My best guess anyway...

December, a weekday.

The snow falls,

It's a perfect winter storm.

Early dismissal comes

crackling from ancient speakers -

Hundreds of children escape,

Backpacks bumping:

Little souls soaring.

 

Twelve degrees Fahrenheit and

the cat curls into a half moon.

She's warming on the bed -

Pink nose, dazed and voluptuous,

With tuna breath, a slight snore.

Her soul swells in front of me:

All she needs in the world she has.

 

And me,

the iron clad kettle whistles

from the kitchen:

I know more about fear and dread

than I ever imagined;

I'm confused about God.

 

Still, I stare from the window while

the little boy from next door

jumps into the snowbank.

Russet curls blow across his

porcelain forehead,

His snowsuit's bold like a red sailboat.

 

These images shape my soul

with a sympathetic hand.

The long streets are still

in the half-light of dusk:

But, it's in all off us, I know --

 

An envelope stuffed with

words and pictures:

Neither happiness

nor sadness --

 

A soul just is.