Saturday, December 15, 2018


Beneath the ice, seeds sleep,
buds await--
Morning finds me searching
for warmth and some semblance
of spring. Flashlights line the bedside
table, replace moisturizer and books.
You lie next to me. Steady snores
comfort me as sleet meets pain.
Fear wants to make its claim
in these moments between bitter
cold and desired warmth. I pull
another afghan around my shoulders,
think of my grandmother's hands,
my grandfather's death, pray
in the quiet gathering of ice on limbs.
How frail the hours that support
the expected worry of one more season,
low-laden and fraught with winter's weight.

This is updated from 2005