This Far In
a poem for difficult weather
This Far In
Winter left a dent in me
filling up and spilling over
with manic bird clatter. Cold
April morning: light lances
through bedroom curtains
and casts an arrowhead
bright across the dark wood floor.
Gray, abbreviated days
accumulated, and left
a dent in me, a hollow
space for morning’s discord
to echo and loop.
How the heart chafes against it:
the vacillations of spring—
from false to freezing.
There’s ice
in the forecast tonight, but
something of the morning remains—
mind and heart and body cling
to what I won’t mistake for
song. The manic clatter
of waking creatures.
And the river’s last slab of ice
cracking and snapping off
into the drift.
I feel like winter leaves a dent in all of us. :)
Ooooh, I like the action here, the oenomatipeaia (sp???) You know, the sound words. The snapping of ice. The CLATTER of birds! Not only can I see what's going on. I can hear it.