They march on in frigid temps – A Poem by Sunil Sharma

When the trailing fog obliterates
solidities into
strips of thick grays, it fails to stop

the hands and feet on the march on
cold wet streets with stacks of snow.

The hands that blow fire and
remove the stubborn patches
of black ice,

fix roofs and edges
for
a city staying indoors;

humming-smoking- exchanging
jokes, on a day of yellow orange,

the rogue wind

sending more bitterness
and
frigid air, their merry way.