Winter’s kiss is fatal —
she brings with her a
wrath of unbearable cold
or maybe it’s bearable
and I’ve just grown thin-skinned
in my older age?
I sit in my favorite chair
and watch snow fall
to the ground, fluffy
chunks of purification
sing in harmony.
Music fills my ears.
I scratch my dog
and relish her satisfied
sighs as she
snuggles in closer to me —
her whiskers brush my hands.
We sit still, peaceful in
the warmth of our home
thankful to have this roof
over our heads;
a covering of life’s
many blessings bestowed
bountifully.
People text. They call.
They want to know if
I’m enduring winter
as best as I can and I
tell them, “I’m fine” or
“We’re good” and I just want
to be done with answering
questions that are neverending
or fill me with grief.
I try to pull myself
out of the frequent funk
that wriggles in unannounced
and sets up shop
deep within my flesh.
I prefer the luring aspect
of smelling and feeling
clean.
I remind myself of
the gratitude that lives
on my tongue, how anxious
I often am to acknowledge it,
I will not forget where
I could be versus where
I am.
Covered in the gift
of love and its divine presence,
the sadness I swim in
isn’t promised to drown me
only wash and purify me
as white as the snow
sticking to the ground.
This is what I tell myself.
This is what I have to believe.
Originally published in Other Doors via Medium.
