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Friday, December 18, 2009, 15:15
my winter whisper:
This is my whisper to the winter,
to the frozen blanket covering the frozen earth,
to the shivering dead leaves clinging to skeletal branches
and the tiny footprints of tiny animals trying to find
warmth. Trying to find home. The darkness now comes early
and settles over us like a black curtain over abandoned windows,
like a lid rattling shut under the steam of a boiling pot. The wind blows
the snow and still it falls silently. Silently like secret
tears for the sad loss of secret things. The falling flakes
like falling tears catch the sun and remind you of warmer
times and orange sunlight through brown wheat grass,
fireflies and white lights glowing in the night air.
This is my whisper to the season and this is my whisper to
you. We’ll watch the cinematic snowfall through icy windows
like millions of miniature parachutes falling back to earth.
Slowly, slowly, slowly it builds into rolling hills of
white. Lying on our backs and staring through them
into the brief breaks of blue inside the deep gray of the clouds
wondering when the sun will find her strength again
to shine for us. All I am left wondering
is if she can hurry and if she can go out of her way
to saturate me a bit longer than usual, and in the meantime
find the excuse to make every snowflake shine like every tear
that will remind me of the warmth, of the orange sunlight in the
seasons to come, the seasons that passed. This is my whisper
to the winter. To the way the wind blows the snowfall from the roof
and glistens the air like frozen stars in frozen skies. I know
you see it too, I know you’re watching too. This is my whisper to you.
Labels: po
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Profile
"I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books;
I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me."
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Friday, December 18, 2009, 15:15
my winter whisper:
This is my whisper to the winter,
to the frozen blanket covering the frozen earth,
to the shivering dead leaves clinging to skeletal branches
and the tiny footprints of tiny animals trying to find
warmth. Trying to find home. The darkness now comes early
and settles over us like a black curtain over abandoned windows,
like a lid rattling shut under the steam of a boiling pot. The wind blows
the snow and still it falls silently. Silently like secret
tears for the sad loss of secret things. The falling flakes
like falling tears catch the sun and remind you of warmer
times and orange sunlight through brown wheat grass,
fireflies and white lights glowing in the night air.
This is my whisper to the season and this is my whisper to
you. We’ll watch the cinematic snowfall through icy windows
like millions of miniature parachutes falling back to earth.
Slowly, slowly, slowly it builds into rolling hills of
white. Lying on our backs and staring through them
into the brief breaks of blue inside the deep gray of the clouds
wondering when the sun will find her strength again
to shine for us. All I am left wondering
is if she can hurry and if she can go out of her way
to saturate me a bit longer than usual, and in the meantime
find the excuse to make every snowflake shine like every tear
that will remind me of the warmth, of the orange sunlight in the
seasons to come, the seasons that passed. This is my whisper
to the winter. To the way the wind blows the snowfall from the roof
and glistens the air like frozen stars in frozen skies. I know
you see it too, I know you’re watching too. This is my whisper to you.
Labels: po
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