Monday, December 10, 2012


At twenty below the moon comes up                        
       in blue daylight; our mattress, dense with sleeping bags 
and white feather pillows
belies any sense of warmth-slash- comfort.

(pretense): how we used to walk on
  white sand beaches, sandals dangling
from my fingers.

                                                         we lie chilled, flung beyond hope as
trees lean over the frozen lake.

this house, my paper-strewn desk, the thin-shelled walls, 
                  cold-soaked we resort to energetic huddling, drawing knees to chest,
closing hands into fists (unlike prayer), while 
the deepening fog rises by its own law.

thoughts arise and go unspoken
   there is the daily torpor, hibernations where 
   talking is like the sun (scarce) and
    no blazing words can warm us, now.

we can't plow out, so
 sucking stale air, we dig in
burrowing like wild animals, underground,
shivered, and wheeling our barrows of third-rate regrets
nosing its garbage, stumbling through snowdrifts

waiting, waiting for a chinook
to melt puddled ice and bring back
the light, and (all of) its gulping brightness.


  1. That last photo is gorgeous! Here in Chicago we are still waiting for snow....

  2. warm(er) wishes to you in the windy city!

  3. Your poem is one to reread over and over, taking it in more deeply every time. And beautiful photos! It looks like a land for fairy tales. We had rain and warm temperatures yesterday that turned our gorgeous snow to mush and ice. Bummed...

  4. Sometimes at Christmas, we get a warm wind that melts everything, and the sky stays gray for days; so whenever it snows, I rush outside with my camera. Merry Christmas, Maery Rose!