Winter

Nov 25 2018

On the frozen ground

in the dead of night

when the wind has exhausted itself,

the winter stillness

feels absolute.

Where even light has slowed

in the glacial cold,

arriving

with the diamond-cut clarity

you only see this time of year.

And where sound seems to last

for that extra beat,

hovering

on the densely cooled air

like perishables

preserved on ice.

Time is relative.

So while the heat of summer

makes the heartbeat quicken

and speeds our thinning blood,

we stay young, in winter;

ruddy-cheeked, and flushed

coming in from the cold.

Where the living is easy,

and the weather report

is always sunny and warm,

I suspect people age

as much from the boredom

as being simmered, slowly.

While here, we're kept on our toes.

Because with seasons to come

there's always something to look forward to.

And because where hypothermia beckons

just a few feet past our doors

the proximity of death

gives life its edge.

Separated only

by a key dropped in the snow

in the freezing dark,

a fall, all alone

in the fastness of ice.

As I sit inside

in a pool of yellow light

putting words on paper,

hunched

over this cluttered table

oblivious to time.

In the still of winter

in the fortress of night.