Winter

musings on illinois winter

Every year, I forget:

I forget what it’s like to have the wind bite my face as the door swings open

For the sky to turn pink, then orange, then purply-black so early in the afternoon

For it all to die and for me to stand still,

Breathing shallowly

I don’t know what it’s like to wait death out until I do it every year

The forgetting, perhaps because I never grieve

I turn the other cheek and allow the Midwestern air to slap me

Again and again and again

I slip away from the graveyard in my backyard as the tea scalds my throat

I look myself in the mirror and I don’t know who I am anymore

My skin hangs sallow off my cheekbones

My eyes rimmed red and surrounded by translucent purple

I run a hand across my face and pretend that I can feel it, that I can feel anything

I lace up my boots and trudge into the slush

Awaiting the spring

It’s all that I can do, after all.

Author's Note

Please let me know what you think - I am open to criticism, so tear this apart!

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

A lot of images of mortality in this well written offering. The harsh Illinois winter is described in vivid terms, but we get the feeling that we are getting more than the description of a season. It's as though the bitter cold is a constant reminder of the fragility of life. The speaker emphasizes repeatedly his helplessness to do anything more than try to cope with the brutal elements----he can only trudge through the slush and wait for the spring. He speaks for all of us there, for sometimes life is like that. God, I'm glad I live on the southern coast.

[kentuck14]

D.
I agree with John . . . a sense of mortality that ends with a resignation that life is momentary, fleeting.
In any event the speaker tries to overcome this melancholy thoughts with "[slipping} away from the graveyard in my backyard." A well turned line that says much (to me) about one's struggle with the reality of death. This reminds me much of Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. 2nd stanza, 3rd and 4th verses . . . again that feeling of resignation, a giving over because it's just so difficult to fight it! The Long lines seem to fit the tone of the poem . . . the speaker just has to get it out of her . . . in even one breath, for fear of not taking another one.
If indeed, John and I are right about the sense of this poem and are interested . . . try reading Julian Barne's "Nothing to Be Afraid Of." Enjoyed the poem. And yes, been to Chicago in early spring without a winter coat and was sorry for it (not Chicago . . . the weather).
Tom