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Posts Tagged ‘winter’

They are still tight,
the buds on the chives.
They are wise not to open.
After a brief spring
it is winter again.
Days of white, nights of white,
thick snow and heavy sky.

Last week, when the birds
were singing, I opened.
I didn’t think of it then
as a vulnerable thing to do.
It seemed so dependable,
the sunshine of you.

I should have taken a hint
from the iris still folded
deep in their green envelopes.
Oh damn this lilac heart,
how it rushes to bloom.
The forecast is for winter all spring.

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Poor violets don’t know any better.
They only know it’s been warm for weeks
and the grass is greening and the frost is gone
from the soil. It’s uneasy pleasure, watching
their small blue faces appear so early this year.
Part of me does not want to enjoy them—
the part that longs for cold, for snow,
for the winter that has not come.
One day, there will be nothing left to say.
For now, there are violets blooming
outside the kitchen door. They are beautiful,
nodding in the breeze, no matter
which direction the wind blows.

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Come, Wind

I am starving for winter.
There is too much bloom in me.
Tuck me into the season of emptiness
and shadow and deep, unfathomable snow.
Teach me to be unrecognizably myself,
the everything that isn’t, the generous
space between. Between what?
Let there be no one here who knows
how to answer. Let the wind reshape
anything it finds.

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Impossible, But a Gal Can Wish

Here, love, here
let me be your coat,
and here, let me
be your warm home. Let
me be your studded snows,
your mittens,
your hat, let
me be your shovel,
the sand for your path.
We may not always
agree, we may not
understand, we
may never, ever know why,
but there is so much
so much cold outside, so
here, let me be
your scraper, your
Sorrels, your long
underwear, yes,
your long underwear,
not the scratchy wool kind
but the kind that you
choose to slip into and here,
let me be your fur-lined
dreams, your heated seats,
your neck gator, poles,
north and south,
your perfectly waxed
Nordic skis, please,
please, let it be me.

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The Real Work

Only the parsley
still grows. Beside it,
the tall, brittle stems
of blackened basil.
Behind it, limp leaves
of green and red
chard splayed on the dirt
like empty hands.
Along the fence,
brown stalks
of sunflowers,
taller than my head.
Dead. This is what
the cold does.
It takes it all away.
I crouch beside
the green parsley
and remind myself
to be warm with you,
tell myself
it is not too late,
that sometimes,
against the odds,
despite these cold,
cold nights, something
green and fresh survives.

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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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Almost

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes
and no. No advice that sticks.
The snow comes down

like an afterthought. A flake
on the street. A flake on the nose.
Sometimes I live this way. Perhapsishly

and maybeing. Sixty-five shades
of gray. No rule I can believe in
enough to write it down. Life

itself the exception. Every day
the proof, and then this snow.
I used to think I knew what

gravity was. And love. True,
the snow comes down. But
the heart? How to explain

this rising, this infinite
falling apart, the tangled
astonishing mess. This snow

falling from nowhere. No. No. No.
No. No. No. I say. And yes.

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December 2

Even the grass
seems to disbelieve
the calendar, greening
around the porch.

And the fruit fly
in the window.
And the sun,
though low,
floods the rooms,
the heart.

As if winter
has forgotten us.
I feel myself
softening.
As if the cold
will never come.

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drive
sing
cry
slow
ice
sign
white
go
slide
brake
radio
sing
and
sing
and
gust
honk
slush
lines
each
here
a
choice
to
arrive

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such a short time
I’ve been gone, but now how high
the drifts of snow where
once we danced a path between
my house and yours

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