Hibernation

Back where I’m from, people ask me if it’s cold
where I live, as if expecting
a “Yeah bro,
Fucking cold.”

But the truth is that Minnesota winters
are worse in the telling than in the living.
The night that I remember
being below twenty, was only below ten,
the day when the snow crept up the door like a thief,
there was more in Wisconsin,
and when my bike suddenly pirouetted in the street ,
it was alright because
there were no cars coming.

There was the time when, alone,
I trudged up to the old Indian burial mounds
in search of the inspiration
I stored away during the fall.
The bluffs were blue and patched like a jacket,
and the river below muted its headlong rush
beneath a choppy blanket of cotton.

Written on a wall—‘Lord Jesus Saves’
and I wondered what exactly he saves;
nuts like the squirrels, sun like the sky
or words, like I do.

This time of year, an embrace in your bed is always
warmer than you expected,
the slow-falling drapes outside
a noise ordinance,
and the collective, unsaid conspiracy against the weather,
that much better of an excuse
to spend our hermitage together.

I'm going to cop out on a real review for now, as I'm supposed to be getting ready for school.

I'll just say this, and hope it conveys everything I would normally say.




I WISH I COULD SAVE THIS INTO A LIST OF FAVORITES SOMEWHERE.

I don't know if I can, but that would be amazing.
Because I love this piece. A whooole lot.


Okay.
Off to school.

-Coral-

smorgishborg wrote:Back where I’m from, people ask me if it’s cold
where I live, as if expecting
a “Yeah bro,
Fucking cold.”

But the truth is that Minnesota winters
are worse in the telling than in the living.
The night that I remember
being below twenty, was only below ten,
the day when the snow crept up the door like a thief,
there was more in Wisconsin,
and when my bike suddenly pirouetted in the street ,
it was alright because
there were no cars coming.

There was the time when, alone,
I trudged up to the old Indian burial mounds
in search of the inspiration
I stored away during the fall.
The bluffs were blue and patched like a jacket,
and the river below muted its headlong rush
beneath a cover of glass.

Written on a wall—‘Lord Jesus Saves’
and I wondered what exactly he saves;
nuts like the squirrels, sun like the sky
or words, like I do.

This time of year, an embrace in your bed is always
warmer than you expected,
the slow-falling drapes outside
a noise ordinance,
and the collective, unsaid conspiracy against the weather,
that much better of an excuse
to spend our hermitage together.

Okay... hmmm, nice I guess, but here's my review anyway ^^

1.

Back where I’m from, people ask me if it’s cold

It would sound better if you said, "Back at where I am from"

2.

are worse in the telling than in the living.

If I am not mistaken, and if I have not misunderstood this, I think you mean it the other way around as in:
are worse in living than in telling. Oh and btw, you do not really need to add 'the" in this sentence

3.

There was the time when, alone,
I trudged up to the old Indian burial mounds

(i) There was a time, or there was this time
(ii) when, I alone,....and go on with the second sentence

4. This time of year, an embrace in your bed is always
warmer than you expected,
the slow-falling drapes outside
a noise ordinance,
and the collective, unsaid conspiracy against the weather,
that much better of an excuse
to spend our hermitage together

Okay this was my favorite stanza in this poem, I loved it because you pictured your feelings perfectly here.

Good job, I enjoyed reading this. ^^

smorgishborg wrote:Back where I’m from, people ask me if it’s cold
where I live, as if expecting
a “Yeah bro,
Fucking cold.”

But the truth is that Minnesota winters
are worse in the telling than in the living.
The night that I remember
being below twenty, was only below ten,
the day when the snow crept up the door like a thief,
there was more in Wisconsin,
and when my bike suddenly pirouetted in the street ,
it was alright because
there were no cars coming.

There was the time when, alone,
I trudged up to the old Indian burial mounds
in search of the inspiration
I stored away during the fall.
The bluffs were blue and patched like a jacket,
and the river below muted its headlong rush
beneath a cover of glass.

Written on a wall—‘Lord Jesus Saves’
and I wondered what exactly he saves;
nuts like the squirrels, sun like the sky
or words, like I do.

This time of year, an embrace in your bed is always
warmer than you expected,
the slow-falling drapes outside
a noise ordinance,
and the collective, unsaid conspiracy against the weather,
that much better of an excuse
to spend our hermitage together.

Great work. Love it. Keep Writing!