Still Point Poem by Christopher Parcels

Three below zero-
sunrise. The platform.
I breathe my scarf
and spit to remove
acrylic fiber from my tongue.
Neither saliva nor time freezes
before it hits the ground.

Ten minutes late,
the train shatters
invisible frost barriers
and cherished notions
about time's perceived immobility.
I scowl at the sun and the train
and all reminders of forward motion.

Four months remain,
and time melts to indulge Dali.
Frosty runoff sweeps
pages from the calendar;
but, I long to return to the biting wind,
the taste of my scarf,
and that icy dawn when I realized
how numb I have become to warmth.