In my bleak midwinter i sit,
The grass dead and trees barren,
My breath like the fog on an abandoned pier
In a Bogart film.
Grey and opaque.
My bones are shaking from the chill in the air,
Or my past,
I know not which,
And they make a frosted mug that holds
The slush of my bleak midwinter soul.
The cracking of dead limbs as they drop to the ground form percussion.
The whistling wind sings both melody and harmony
While the squirrels make the bass lick of the shortest day.
My Bleak Midwinter Suite, first movement.
Cold and shallow.
Cold and shallow and yet
The cheers of cardinals over the sound of the empty landscape,
The crunch of little paws on frost covered leaves over the mush of mud semifreddo,
The smell of hickory smoke overlaying the metallic scent of the cold ozone.
There is still beauty to please my eyes and ears and nose
And to feed my soul.
For even in the bleak midwinter,
A stone will warm in the sun.
And once heated, radiate and
Warm everything that it touches
Just a bit.
To stave off the victory of my bleak midwinter.
Would that i will be that rock,
Warmth in the midst of cold.
Would that i will be the cardinal,
Color in a sea of greys.
Would that i will be the sun,
The eventual vanquisher of
All bleak midwinters
Starting with my own.