Chasing Winter
Something I wrote up for my creative writing class. It's inspired by a story I'm storming up in my mind.
I've got to run to class now, so I'll write more about it later.
Chasing Winter
The boat was rickety,
The old tramp, its hull rusty with sea salt.
The captain smiled with wrinkles in his eyes.
Across the water I fled, into the glow of the rising sun.
That ancient empire, long broken in the talons of the eagle.
And as my boot touched soil, the smell of fish touched my nose.
“This is not home.”
The bullet tore across the countryside, carrying me through the months.
Neon samurai, digital geisha.
And sake.
Across the island, after Winter I chased.
The Bear welcomed me with iron arms.
Soil to water to soil. Across the sea I left Winter.
Into the wasteland I fled, and summer came.
And summer went; across the land, Winter again I chased.
--
In Moscow the snow was falling. I hadn’t seen the sun for three weeks.
The vodka burned slowly in my belly, holding firm against the chill of Winter.
My boots were worn through; my scarf hung tattered around my neck.
With a few raw threads my bag sat heavy on my back.
Miles and miles I had come, walking, never stopping.
Chasing.
And here I glimpsed the telltale signs of a young love, of an innocent affair.
I take another drink from my bottle. The snow is falling in Moscow.
I turn to walk.
Winter is waiting.
I've got to run to class now, so I'll write more about it later.
Chasing Winter
The boat was rickety,
The old tramp, its hull rusty with sea salt.
The captain smiled with wrinkles in his eyes.
Across the water I fled, into the glow of the rising sun.
That ancient empire, long broken in the talons of the eagle.
And as my boot touched soil, the smell of fish touched my nose.
“This is not home.”
The bullet tore across the countryside, carrying me through the months.
Neon samurai, digital geisha.
And sake.
Across the island, after Winter I chased.
The Bear welcomed me with iron arms.
Soil to water to soil. Across the sea I left Winter.
Into the wasteland I fled, and summer came.
And summer went; across the land, Winter again I chased.
--
In Moscow the snow was falling. I hadn’t seen the sun for three weeks.
The vodka burned slowly in my belly, holding firm against the chill of Winter.
My boots were worn through; my scarf hung tattered around my neck.
With a few raw threads my bag sat heavy on my back.
Miles and miles I had come, walking, never stopping.
Chasing.
And here I glimpsed the telltale signs of a young love, of an innocent affair.
I take another drink from my bottle. The snow is falling in Moscow.
I turn to walk.
Winter is waiting.