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Posts Tagged ‘cold’

 

 

on my shoulder

small drip of last night’s snow—

all my frozen places take note

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One in Winter

 

 

 

when cold enough

the river becomes its own obstacle—

oh heart, stay warm, stay warm

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I return to find the basil dead,

wilted and browned, dull limp flags.

 

And the cosmos, bent and spent

and dead. And the beans, dead.

 

And the marigolds, still brilliant,

but the forked tongues of their leaves

 

say they are dead. What a difference

one night of cold can make, how

 

no matter how warm the season has been,

it irrevocably changes things.

 

It doesn’t matter I knew it would happen

eventually. The petunias fall all over themselves

 

in profuse bloom as if to say, it’s okay,

not all is lost, but it’s enough to make a woman

 

decide to pay attention, to be warm

in every garden she enters.

 

Some blooms defy the seasons.

There’s so much beauty at stake.

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Five Cents

 

 

 

Finding by chance a buffalo nickel

my son decides to spend his fortune

on a girl he’s never met

who woke one morning

with cancer in her marrow—

 

he tells me he’s thinking

a lot about death,

and he’s scared,

and I tell him yes,

it’s scary.

 

Later, I look out the window,

and though there’s not a hint

of leaves on the trees outside,

I feel some certainty

about green and summer,

 

and I’m amazed at how

just when we think the world

could not get any colder,

we are reminded what even

a tiny bit of warmth can do.

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This Afternoon, I Walk East

How good the cold air

feels on the face

after a morning inside.

I try to tell myself

it could work this way

with the heart, too—

a little winter

when there’s been

so much heat—

but the heart does

not believe me

and zips up its coat.

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Ice on the Water And

ten below
and yet it unfurls so greenly
this new leaf of love

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When we tug at a single thing in nature, we find it attached to the rest of the world.
—John Muir

and so when I tug at the blue green ice
that marbles the top of the river, it’s no
surprise to find it connected to those mornings
when I was a girl and the lake was frozen
and I could skate all the way to the middle,
could follow the cracks and skate so far
I could hardly see my small yellow house.
I would lay down, face to the ice, and feel
the way the cold rose up to sting my check,
feel the chill seep through my winter clothes.
I would roll over and stare at the white sky
and wave my arms and legs in the angel pattern,
though there was no snow. And I’d stay there
a long, long time. In this way, I learned
it is possible to be warm even held by the cold,
and tugging at this, it is no surprise
to find it connects to everything.

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Just for a Moment

after reading up into the silence the green by e.e. cummings

Cold is the
(hold me)
wind and
sharp is
the barb
exposed
and
(hold me)
sour are
the words
that flew,
and slow
(hold me)
is the ache
to leave.

It’s cold
love
and though
it won’t
change anything
it would
feel good
(the dark
is near)
if you’d
just
for a
moment
(hear
the train?)
hold me.

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Uplifting

Twenty below
this morning
and I gasp
at the air,
part shock
and part delight
in the pure cold chill of it.
And though the sun
is barely warm
on the cheek
it is light
and getting lighter—
and that is just
the light we see.
There is more,
they say,
and I feel it,
some vaster spectrum,
they way I feel
the love I cannot
see, how it blesses me
like the sun,
blesses me
even like
the cold.

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Down by the Riverside Haiku

so cold I could al-
most forget about your hands—
not quite.

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