winter poem
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I am the unending night that swallows the day. I am the warmth of the cold sun before it fades. I am the glow of the moon on a frozen ground. I am the falling snow that muffles all sound. I am the north wind that bites, and the cardinal that sings. I am the
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The cold lingers in the air And in my mind, Cloudy as the gray sky. The weight of winter smog Settles in my chest, Causing me to cough in my bed As I long for sleep That cannot cure this fatigue.
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Silence. Muffled, echoing voices singing yuletide songs. Silence. Smothered, trodding footsteps in the light crunch of snow. Silence. Dimmed, crackling flickers of a soft grated flame. Silence. Measured, rhythmic turning of a well worn page. Silence. Hushed, intimate whispers of a loved one’s voice. Silence. Stilled, passing time in the winter frozen world.
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Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home. I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters so I can pretend that the cold doesn’t exist. The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation. All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue,
Bringing Mae Flowers 