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Day: February 24, 2021


Cabin Fever

  A bitter, stupid wind blows over the ridge and down through the pines surrounding our cabin. It is purposeless. The snow has already been scoured from the frozen soil, and the temperature is dramatically below freezing so we’re not going outside, anyway. This wind doesn’t even whistle through the boughs; it just creates a

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  Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter,

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Anchors These January days are longer, sun higher, snow melts off the slope so drip, drip, drip down the spikes before cold nights turn them rigid and they fringe the roof – fingers pointing at inefficient heating, ventilation, ice dams, loosened shingles. But this afternoon they wax poetic – prisms of light along the eaves,

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Miscarriage February 9th again, and once again I lose the baby, a fog of nose and arms and legs— a world not sea-blue, but blood-red, full of volcanic beginning. Ending in February: bark-littered snow, limb-battered oaks. A split-stripped weeping willow creaks. Once it seemed I could hold what was needed to swaddle nothing into something—something

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Cleveland Haiku 618-622

Seasonal speed bump— large clump of rock salt in the road January— skyscraper tops shrouded in snow January, yet no one on the sledding hill January— one man, one dog on the beach January— wind-driven whitecaps on the still-unfrozen lake

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Frostbite and other unlearned lessons

you are cold and hard and I know what that means: many winters of children and fenceposts and frostbitten tongues have taught me lessons about the flavours of frost designs and regret but still I know I do not learn and I will kiss you and taste you and find myself stuck until the spring

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midnight in winter

midnight in winter Ice on the window: skin of the world we do not want, the word the lips refuse to spill. The enemy. The fragile, dermal glass is there, impotent shout against the winter. Voice cries out, silent, inside: whisper, mutter, shiver, curse. A distant train from someplace warm howls. It carries memories of

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Breaking The Ice

It needs strength to break the ice when it’s frozen as solidly as silence. Or so I thought. It needs strength to break the ice, to break the mould and reform. Or so I thought. But just suppose, the ice gives up it’s power and allows the colour to break through, bright so the delicate

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Snowshoeing—March For M and K Frozen branches of barren birch cast blue-grey shadows on the Long Trail, blanketed white. Trees encased in ice and snow, shimmer against cobalt. Cheeks red, ruddy. Our noses, eyes, sting and drip; tiny hairs now miniature icicles. Still, our bodies warm as we climb. We peel layers, swiftly stuff them

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