By Erich Von Hungen
We are 60% water, it is said.
And in some coldness of heart,
some lack of passion’s heat,
I have frozen that 60%,
well, all the rest too,
into a snowman.
There, artificial eyes,
coal first now marbles,
a carrot nose,
arms out to the sides —
staring, staring.
I need something,
you understand,
though say you don’t.
I need that 60% to mix,
move, come alive again.
I need a change of season — inner season.
But it doesn’t come by the clock,
you understand,
though say you don’t.
I need to feel —
to feel myself melting,
so as to do something to save it — that 60%.
Something, instead of just standing there,
buttons for a smile,
a cartoon of winter.
I need that water to flow somewhere.
Oh, but where is that — somewhere?
Erich von Hungen is a writer from San Francisco, California. His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, The Write Launch, Versification, Green Ink Press, The Hyacinth Review and others. He has launched four collections of poems. The most recent is “Bleeding Through: 72 Poems Of Man In Nature”.
