winter is
icy fingers forcing through lacy glass pane
thin skin between the cold and me
warmth is stolen from my coffee and my right side
morning window is winter’s cruel version of a bonfire
outside trees even seem rheumatic
old knobby stiff knees
aching finger branches
winter is
flakes drifting down in darkness
drawing straight lines to earth
blinding purity
the stillness roars and whispers
breath hesitates
unwilling warm humanity to disturb sacred cold perfection
but then inhale, exhale
and take part in the holiness
small life in the dark
winter is
the odd sensation of one’s eyebrows instantly frozen
the dry pain of shocked lungs
the battle with hard ice and snow blankets
day after week after month
and just past the moment one’s sure the sun has died
comes
the sound of water
the sound of hope.
wanderlove 