Winter's Cold Fist Poem by anais vionet

A tempest night sky presses, my lattice windows shake,
as if someone's being thrown against them, or worse yet,
a yeti's breaking in. They lock with little levers that seem far
too flimsy to keep out the prying fingers of turbulence.

We watched a man plodding outside - obviously a student from Alaska. He was talking on his phone, his breath a continuous, cold white cloud. He slipped, careering drunkenly but managed to stay upright by assuming a surfer-like crouch.
"Where do you think HE's going? " Lisa wondered.

Forget fall's polite, amuse-bouche of chill, we've been smacked, full frontally assaulted by the gigantic, cold-fist of winter. "Go on, " I said, to the weather gods last fall, like an unlucky gambler on a losing streak. "hit me! "

Now I'm searching Amazon for "flannel underwear".