Seven below

One from the archives for a chilly day

This morning, on the school run,
even the sun did not want to rise,
lounging fatly in the treetops,
red and round, heavily globular,
a frozen popsicle on a bare tree stick.
The air itself petrified hard,
was spiky and painful to touch,
unyielding; we hugged ourselves
and shouldered the cold aside.
It was cold this morning.

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