The Trouble With Winter (an older poem)

It is not the snow or the cold,
not even the wind or the ice.

Nor is it the darkness of daybreak
or indigo evenings.
It isn't the smell of exhaust or
how it blackens the snow,
like an insult.

It is not the lost glove,
or the cold wet sock,
when your foot lands too deep
in a hollowing snow bank.
It isn't chapped lips, cracked fingers
or skin that begs to be scratched.

It is not losing your keys in a darkened
white void. It's not even the fear
of slipping on ice, breaking your
leg or wrecking your car.

It isn't the stillness, or having
to slow down your life.

The trouble with winter is knowing
the homeless roam freezing at night
as you pull up your blankets and
whisper your prayers.

The Wrong Song

That song is so wrong for her,
like an oversize hand-me-down
jumper she’d never have chosen
herself—one with a square lace collar—
hey—she’s been preaching v-necks
for years. Lace is for curtains– not
to clown up a dress, she moans—
and it’s gray—Gray is for wildlife.
She’s wildly addicted to color—
cerulean blue and fuschia.
The wrong song is too tight,
like a corset halting her lungs,
when she needs release.
It would have to be worn with
nylons and toe-cramping shoes.
Where would she sing such a mad song?

But with the right song she
shimmys into her jeans, zips
her fleece, pops a hat from her pocket,
tosses a purple backpack onto a shoulder,
embarks on a path she knows, yet doesn’t
know yet--to find a song that fits her strut,
but more than that, one that will reach out
to you, dear listener: to you, and to you.
And her song is that song that we need.
And her song, more than anything
lets you breathe.

January 2009

All the anticipated
silence –
bunkering down
with books and music
in front of the fireplace
warming our feet—
those days never last
long enough for me.
Decoupaging, purging,
mending, sewing,
compiling music
gathering souvenirs,
creating photo cards
and lyrical lines --where
are those slow motion afternoons?

As I find time
for photoshop
and facebook,
I face the fact
of youth well-spent
and life, generously,
letting me in on another era.

Cold as it’s been
I hate to see
Winter wane
since once that starts—
we’re into Spring
and Winter’s on
the way again.