A Winter Poem
Winter is more insidious than summer.
The low-angled sun is a dull blade,
sheathed in bitter grey.
In winter I play old music.
The music my grandparents listened to
as they took me to Friendly’s or to
a clarinet lesson in the next town over.
It’s the music of nostalgia and longing
and emptiness. Winter music.
Winter creeps into my thoughts,
warns of the approaching holidays,
sets a single place at the table.
In these months my fingers are always cold.
I sit hunched, arms crossed,
conserving what little heat I can muster.
Not every place has a winter.
At least not the way I mean it.
I’ve spent Christmases by the pool,
New Year’s Eves under warm, soft skies.
A friend says, “You’re a real New Englander.”
I say, “Only in disposition.”
/ / /
14 November 2022
State College PA
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