Friday Original Poem

Chicago in late February,
The town still dimmed with snow
Unrelenting weight of black-tinged ice
And endless potholes missing bottoms

Sidewalks twisted into new slick paths
Blueish knuckles roughened and swollen
In the crust-dry radiator heat
And grey runnels of earth somewhere underneath it all

Above, a wisp of blue shines through blades of cloud
And Rina demands, "What is that?"
Scattered reflections and remembrances
Of a city still bandaged by winter