Poetry Friday is hosted by Jone at Check it Out
I am done with winter.
No longer will I talk of the beauty of snow as it falls and transforms our neighborhood into a Currier and Ives painting. No longer will I speak of warm-by-the-fireside coziness, or of the pleasure of being bundled up in favorite sweaters or lacing up fur lined boots. No longer will I think it charming to walk by children adding final touches to their front yard snowmen.
I am done with snow every where, and cold all the time. I am done with the tiresome ritual of hat-mittens-scarf-boots-coat just to take out the trash or walk the dog. I am done with snow melting into sloshy rivulets at every turn during the day and freezing into ice banks at night. I am done with a cold and cough that will not seem to end.
But, it’s February…and winter is not done with me.
Feeling gloomy the other day, I turned to poetry and found this one by Barbara Crooker. It captured exactly the weariness I felt about winter:
Another gray day, snow everywhere, the piles at the margins
deckled with grit. No sun, again. In the backyard,
crows are passing rumors one rough syllable
at a time. Spring is a language from another
country. Green is a vocabulary word on a flash
card. Crocus and daffodils, impossible constructs.
This is all there is: sky, the color of snow. Snow,
the color of sky. Every day, a few more inches
deposited in the bank. Accumulation takes on
sinister undertones. Finches cluster sullenly
at the feeders, won’t trade their shabby
cardigans for something yellow and silky.
The mind of winter is white and interior.
Silence fills the shadows. The sky lowers,
and look, more snow’s beginning to fall.