Winter - Shawna L. Swetech

[Larry Robinson]

Wintering


All around, December in her decaying overcoat, moldering
piles of damp detritus. Trees, disrobed, drip with cold
as small brown birds flitter to keep warm, or hunker down
on stripped branches of bone. This time of year, 
I keep nectar topped up in the hummingbird feeder, 
though it must be icy on the long, thin thread
of their tongues.
	And what about the winter you,
the inner winterland, and how you long to stay 
under the down comforter, the flannel sheets. Or to kneel
in front of the fire with a hot cup of something
to warm your hands on. Everything is merry and bright, mostly
but not really. You can’t help think of what never was,
or what was, and now isn’t. You want to sing carols
in the living room, read The Night Before Christmas 
to your bright-eyed children, to say the magic words
on that magic night, Not a creature was stirring, not even
a mouse…and the stockings were hung by the chimney with
care. You want to be the momma, head a-swaddle 
in her ‘kerchief, running to the window with a lit taper
like the folks in the drawing. You want to see the moon 
on the breast of the new fallen snow, while your children 
snuggle in their beds, but you can’t. Those days are gone 
and really, there’s just so much merry a heart 
can muster, only so much twinkling now in the eyes 
of memory. 

Today, let’s sip of our hot toddy, deeply spiced
and buttered, with a splash of cream and rum. 
It will be over before you know it—endings 
of winter spinning toward spring, the returning 
light. Don’t be sad about being sad.	It’s okay 
to slip away to your blanket cave, to languish 
for a while in the rich darkness.



	- Shawna L. Swetech	
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