Click here to read the next poem.     What a Soul Is By Heather Cook-Lindsay     What a Soul Is December, a weekday. The snow falls, It's a perfect winter storm. Early dismissal comes crackling from ancient speakers-- hundreds of children escape, backpacks bumping: little souls soaring. Twelve degrees Fahrenheit and the cat curls into a half moon. She's warming on the bed-- pink nose, dazed and voluptuous with tuna breath, a slight snore. Her soul swells in front of me: all she needs in the world she has. And me, the iron clad kettle whistles from the kitchen. I know more about fear and dread than I ever imagined; I'm confused about God. Still, I stare from the window while the little boy from next door jumps into the snowbank. Russet curls blow across his porcelain forehead. His snowsuit's bold like a red sailboat. These images shape my soul with a sympathetic hand. The long streets are still in the half-light of dusk: But, it's in all off us, I know-- An envelope stuffed with words and pictures. Neither happiness nor sadness-- a soul just is.       © Copyright, Heather Cook-Lindsay   Click here to read Heather Cook-Lindsay's Brief Bio.   Click here to read the next poem.