Posts Tagged ‘Winter’

Gulls are Harbingers-

as much as Robins, yet,

not appreciated as part

of Spring’s welcoming Quartet.

This will thrill

like the sun, anxiety

of spring undoing

the old curse

of cold overstayed.

And the green pushes up,

unfurls like a map of stars,

and ribbed transparent stalactites

fall to shatter into

the earth. A new

song will flit over the hills.

It’s funny how childlike and innocent my perception of the world, or at least the Natural world, becomes at the beginning of each season.

At the start of winter this year the snow was falling so lightly I thought it was almost dreamlike. Then winter got old. People began to grow tired of the now, especially as the weather turned foul. I tried to maintain a positive outlook, trying to see the beauty in storms and the whiteness of everything. But the sad thing about winter, when you get older, is that the season kind of loses it’s magic. You find you’d rather stay inside. I tried going out into the snow once. I only ended up being outside for fifteen minutes. Maybe the magic is also gone because fifteen minutes can feel like forever when you’re a kid.

Now winter grows into spring, and I find myself smiling as I step into a puddle by accident. I feel happy being able to see green plants now- tree branches no longer covered by snow. But I’m wondering how long this fascination will last. As a writer, observation of the surrounding world is important, but there’s this nagging sense that what I observe will get tiresome eventually.

I guess that the best option is to try and keep an open mind. To observe the changes that happen, and try to find the beauty in the heat waves and thunderstorms to come.

Wish me luck, and stay tuned!

In this whiteness there is desolation.

Ferocity abounds while ice plummets

to where a birdwatcher would make his or her observation.

But now the snow plunges into summits,

hiding landscape from humans at their windows.

All one can see are tiny white comets,

and in this instant, that is all one can know.

The sun is shining,

white hot and blinding,

and the temperature climbs

slowly above freezing,

and warmth seeps into the earth,

into my skin,

and I feel everything move,

though nothing is moving.

I guess it’s because there is so little-

sun, sky, snow, spruce,

and me- therefore I feel

in tune, connected,

as if each of these things

has a heart

that beats in tune with mine.

Bright blue sky

winks in its sapphire gauze,

teasing. The warmth

is yet to come. The escape

is yet to come.

When these white lozenges melt,

due to the sun’s palpable tongue,

and reveal their brown undercoats,

I will climb over them

and sing into the breezes

and become a wild man-

relishing in this freedom-

if only temporarily.

Something gray and infectious

has fallen into human throats.

 

Caught by veins,

those catcher’s mitts, those tiny roots,

 

and carried around

like dandruff.

 

Sir, your eyes are bloodshot!

Sir, you’re retching like a hurricane!

 

Sir! The sun’s been stopped

in the sky!

 

The clouds are hoarding

its light!

 

What a meteoric fall

man’s dug himself into.

 

Whether he’ll live to see

if the sun scorches through

 

those bandages of clouds is another thing.

For now,

 

only the willow’s tendrils move-

the trunk, a headstone.

Windless stillness,

silence.

Sunlight slices through

dense clumps of silver.

Light perforated

only by gray, almost transparent

shadows- long and thin

shadows of trees.

The earth is wearing out its

white play-clothes.

They have gravel stains,

dirt stains,

and the beating heart

of its grasses is turning

as it enters REM sleep.

Earth is dreaming of when

she will burst from the womb,

naked and beautiful,

and will grow its emerald hair

long.

And will decorate itself in jewels of color-

blossoms

and leaves.

We could join hands

and walk down to the pier.

Look back and see the city lights-

those glowing orbs of white, yellow, and amber.

Look at the water-

so dark at this time, like black velvet.

Feel the cold, wind

biting at the tip of your nose,

air charged with an aura of ice.

Our hands

a heat source, keeping numbness

from settling in our fingertips.

You or I could ask,

out loud or in our heads,

“what is it all for?”

It’s killing time.

That’s all.

But I would rather kill time

with you, than anyone else.

You’re worth more

than the meager minutes I’m given

to spend with you.

Wind takes the lead-

I follow. Arms- flutters

of snow- guide me

 

to and fro

with the bending of pines.

I feel warm in this cold place.

 

Nature is strong. I do not mind

following. I step in time

to winter’s music.