I Am Winter
Jan 29 2015


I am winter,
my temperament stillness
my passion cool.

Where the permanence of cold
holds time at bay,
its congealed grip
its brittle strength.
And snow blankets the world
concealing its ugliness;
then wind-whipped, forgives
begins afresh.
The season ruled by night,
its balm of dark
enclosing me,
transparent sky
to the edge of space.

My pace is almost hypnotic,

as I walk

lost in thought

on freshly fallen snow,

so dry and cold, every step squeaks

as if in protest.

Then turn for home,

the trail cresting

moon setting
and clear air, on a high pressure system
barrelling-in from the west.

On a height of land

the view stretching for miles,

where I stop to rest

and the wind goes dead
and the woods in precious silence.
Bundled-up
in fleece and wool and down,
I have walked this far
only to stop
immersed in stillness,
my torrent of thought

mercifully calmed,

whip-sawed feelings

softening.

Clocks move slower
near the speed of light.
But the laws of physics
say nothing of winter
or moonless nights.
When molecules hardly vibrate

and the world is rendered soundless.
Too dark
for time to even count.

About halfway through writing this, I was pretty much resigned to calling it an exercise and filing it in the trash. Sometimes this is worthwhile: I can come up with a good line, and set it aside for some future work; I can help exhaust my tendency to over-write, which may make my next poem better. But I think I may have rescued this one.

And it's true: winter very much suits my temperament. I find the darkness comforting. I like how things slow down (not unexpected in someone so averse to change!) I love having an excuse to hibernate. I find the cold refreshing, bracing. ...And need I mention the absence of bugs?!!

I think my favourite part is this: The season ruled by night,/ its balm of darkness/ enclosing me. Ruled and balm really nail what I wanted to convey; and the idea of enclosure -- of containment, of being held -- brings it home.

I also like the push-pull of having walked this far/ only to stop. It illustrates the pointlessness -- and therefore the point -- of walking a trail: you're not going anywhere; there is no objective, and nothing to accomplish, but the thing itself.

Count works well as a double entendre: to [even] count as in tallying, and to count as in mattering. I'm pleased to have the poem end on a strong verb, as well as a word that packs significance.

The basic themes here are nothing new for me: the perception of time ...a lyric observation of nature ...allusions to a turbulent interior life. And some of the imagery I've used before. But still, it's an OK poem that puts it all together in a new and different way.