Post by rrw on Dec 4, 2011 14:50:23 GMT -5
I Autumn
An oak tree quietly awaiting winter. Her black branches
twisting in knots, a constant search for southern light,
for warmer days when leaves thrived, summer days
with leaves muttering rain, glorious days when
thunderstorms lit the night on fire. A time long ago before
the crows came and stole the the bark from her youth.
II Fall
Crossing the footbridge. Quite hazardous these days;
its wooden planks nothing more than a graveyard
for dead leaves, broken tree branches and patches
of treacherous black ice, forcing those who dared
to take the short cut across the stream to step with care.
The change in seasons always has a way of changing us,
making us more suspicious of the ground beneath our feet;
as the landscape shifts, so do we. Colder weather binds us
in heavy, unflattering coats. Thick gloves make touching
the world (and each other) impossible. Difficult also for me
to feel your face even with my mittens off,
my fingers numbing instantly, my lips already frozen together.
But no worries. There’s always that small café near Bridge Street
which smells of used books and fresh baked bread.
We can shed our outer skins and warm ourselves with
coffee (for me) and tea (for you) and bask in balmy
conversations about spring and summer and the short trip
we took last year to the Gulf. We can pretend (if just for a little while)
that Christmas isn’t just around the corner, that soon the old wooden
bridge won’t all together disappear underneath a foot of snow.
III Winter
The truck was far more excited about
sliding down the icy road that leads
to town than me. And why not?
Its fossil-fueled engine—yes, I know, you always
said, an electric car would work better—kept it warm
while I shivered in the cab ‘cause the heater
never works... except during the summer.
But (you joked) our love is passionate... True, or
at least, obsessive enough to keep icicles from
forming on my hands as I swerve and skid
toward the closest grocery store just to buy
a quart of milk for your morning tea.
And yes, there’s something (sort of) comforting
in the knowledge that when I finally make it back
home (alive), we’ll wrap ourselves up inside
that huge quilt you made, sip a hot cup of cocoa,
smoke a few cigarettes
(maybe sneak a chilly kiss or two)
while waiting for my frozen feet to thaw.
An oak tree quietly awaiting winter. Her black branches
twisting in knots, a constant search for southern light,
for warmer days when leaves thrived, summer days
with leaves muttering rain, glorious days when
thunderstorms lit the night on fire. A time long ago before
the crows came and stole the the bark from her youth.
II Fall
Crossing the footbridge. Quite hazardous these days;
its wooden planks nothing more than a graveyard
for dead leaves, broken tree branches and patches
of treacherous black ice, forcing those who dared
to take the short cut across the stream to step with care.
The change in seasons always has a way of changing us,
making us more suspicious of the ground beneath our feet;
as the landscape shifts, so do we. Colder weather binds us
in heavy, unflattering coats. Thick gloves make touching
the world (and each other) impossible. Difficult also for me
to feel your face even with my mittens off,
my fingers numbing instantly, my lips already frozen together.
But no worries. There’s always that small café near Bridge Street
which smells of used books and fresh baked bread.
We can shed our outer skins and warm ourselves with
coffee (for me) and tea (for you) and bask in balmy
conversations about spring and summer and the short trip
we took last year to the Gulf. We can pretend (if just for a little while)
that Christmas isn’t just around the corner, that soon the old wooden
bridge won’t all together disappear underneath a foot of snow.
III Winter
The truck was far more excited about
sliding down the icy road that leads
to town than me. And why not?
Its fossil-fueled engine—yes, I know, you always
said, an electric car would work better—kept it warm
while I shivered in the cab ‘cause the heater
never works... except during the summer.
But (you joked) our love is passionate... True, or
at least, obsessive enough to keep icicles from
forming on my hands as I swerve and skid
toward the closest grocery store just to buy
a quart of milk for your morning tea.
And yes, there’s something (sort of) comforting
in the knowledge that when I finally make it back
home (alive), we’ll wrap ourselves up inside
that huge quilt you made, sip a hot cup of cocoa,
smoke a few cigarettes
(maybe sneak a chilly kiss or two)
while waiting for my frozen feet to thaw.
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
