Here’s to the end of single-digit temperatures. This week’s Big Tent Poetry prompt asked us to write ourselves out of something giving us “the blues.” Chicago in February is enough to give anyone the blues.
Finally, after hours of shivering, heat
blooms in my arteries like the slow
opening of a tropical flower, fantastic-
bright petals spreading from
tiny fisted buds into fanned glory.
This is the way the body works,
insides blossoming and pulsating
with life, even as it sleeps. And isn’t
this the way life works? Duty billows
unchecked, run by the hypothalamus
of the busy world, blowing my helpless
shell from here to there like a stem
wavering in unsteady ground,
wanting only to be rooted, warm.