winter | poetry

new poetry from this season — and two from my first collection, "poemspartum" (with some flourishes)

christmas mess
christmas wrappings
on the floor reminds me
of toddler squeals and
quickly shredded paper.
it’s a christmas mess!
reminiscent of twinkly lights
reflecting in their
mesmerized eyes —
their hopeful faces
as they held up each present
and shouted its name.
i smile as i step around
and over
this mess, this
scattered evidence of delight
the remnants of the life
i always dreamt of.

---

aches
my belly aches at the thought
of the magic ending,
of vacuumed up pine needles —
evidence of joy and the release of one thousand
withheld breaths
wiped clean.
and now me must enter
the long months of winter
and stare at its bitterness
our cheeks pink from its cold slaps
as we stomp our feet in petulance,
forcing warmth back
to our frozen toes.

---

snow
it snowed the first morning with you in our home.
i don’t think you’ll remember,
but i will.

i brought you to your nursery window
and showed you fluffiness falling from the sky,
a homecoming gift.

snow makes me sentimental — it always has.
i’m in awe of how it can control sound,
manipulate the air
and make the world quiet and loud
all at once.
a poet in its softest form.

snow stops time.
it personifies beauty.

and i cannot thank snow enough
for helping me welcome
the most precious thing
i’ve ever held.
a tiny snowflake
made with love and teardrops and magic.
quiet and loud —
the greatest gift.

---

winter babies
both my babies were born in early february,
and it snowed every day until march.

i would sit on the couch
a new babe in my arms
and stare at the falling snow
with hatred in my eyes.

the snow and i are usually friends,
but when you haven’t left your house in over a month,
you start to hate the things you love,
until yourself and snow become one.

new england winters are always miserable —
anne bradstreet warned us, our pioneer poet.
dark and unbearable, wet and agonizingly long
dreary and inconsistent —
they never tire.

every bone aches in the cold,
from long hours sitting
with your sleeping babe.
but anne reminds us: spring’s pleasantries
wouldn’t exist without winter’s harshness.
we earn the prosperity of warmth.

so, we wait patiently for spring,
me and my winter baby,
hoping that when the sun wakes,
i can join the buds
and poke my head from the cold, hard earth,
and start anew.

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