Winter Blue’s Cure

The chill of winter hung like pain.

More of something to endure.

Those memories were sparked again.

That no time or cold could cure.

The distance closed, my breathe grew short.

I was in the barbers chair.

There were no clues that could report

Except the woman who cut my hair.

She held her tongue, her face showed bored.

On separate pages our minds flowed.

I checked her out and my thoughts roared.

And just like that all cold air glowed.

Dennis Mantin

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