wintering

winter has wandered back in around us,

slow and black-hooded, intentional,

licking the rose-colored cherry blooms

which had sprung up like eager children  

last week, when the world tasted of summer,

sweet grass and hot asphalt. 

 

when you’ve lived long enough, are

there no new things? every strand of hair

a reminder, every song.  i remember sinking

into worlds, like kansas city in the fall, all

oranges and browns, the brick buildings.

cinnamon in coffee, minor key guitar, strange

electronic beats, freeways swirling over each other

like the coils of snakes. and the nameless depth

that resonated within me like bells and strings,

the unbearable sweetness of meaning.  i fell

into it easily, like breathing.  

 

how can i find that here, under this

indecisive sky?  last week was barefoot and

running, remembering Greece’s dry grasses,

the figs from the tree in the garden.  now the air

has closed its fingers, turned its face away,

leaving me dizzy with the disappointment of

trusting in a fickle lover.  and still i want to

open toward this wintering, booming into grey

and rain, if only for this

single afternoon. 

 

outside my window, a rain so soft and pale

it might be snow.