I've been sad, functional, and incredulous over these last weeks. And while I believe I generally express myself better in prose than in poetry, my feelings recently have been expressing themselves to me in poem form. So I share here the poem that's been taking shape, not because it's a "good poem," but because it's an honest one. It's called "January 10."
A year ago
On such a
faux spring day,
I would have
phoned my father,
Who would
have been weighing
A winter
walk,
Having already
noted
The fine blue sky and mild air
Beyond his bedroom window.
We’d have
discussed
What jacket
he might wear
To seize the
unseasonable day.
I would have
told him
What I’d
seen on my walk--
Some foursomes
teeing off
Beside the
hilltop clubhouse
Unshaded by
the leafless trees,
Others putting on greens too green
For days
when darkness falls by five.
But not this
year.
While winter’s
mildness
Means my
mind and feet
Can wander
the usual routes
With their own
blank knowing,
I crave a
snowfall
That stills and
silences the world,
Covers me in
dreamless sleep
Until I wake ready for Earth
To resume her
rush to rebirth.
