I always pray
when the cold comes
that I might touch the soul of winter,
even though I don't know
what I'm really asking.
Winter is as sensual as summer
but less raucous and flirty.
More a meditation than party.
I keep trying to taste it in a different way
like you would sample flavors
of ice cream, berries, trying
to get to its major ingredient
--that soft delicious quietness--
at the center into which I want to sink
like you would onto different mattresses in a store
until you found just the right
soft quietness, sink, and breathe "ahhh."
I want to play foolishly
in the woods like a child when the trees
are so flocked with snow
the whole place looking like a magical kingdom
in a fairytale.
I gasp. I stare. I have to hush.
Winter, ever changing
I hunger to get to the bottom
of its inexplicable lessons.
Take this week: I woke
to the outside front windows cased in ice
the back windows plastered with snowflakes
And rivulets of rain on the side door.
I laughed. I'm of three minds too some days
unsure of what I want, flummoxed
a little crazed too.
I worry that we might lose
the magnificence of winter
like we are losing the ice sheets.
I think it's time to get a little
crazed and "snow" Washington with
every bit of fierceness we can muster.
Winter teaches that too--a fierceness
nothing and no one can stand against.
Dear God. Abide.
