It has become cold early this year,
with thermometers waking below zero,
February weather in December,
the promise of colder to come,
a frigid season.
For now, you stay inside,
you and your Pandora’s box of memories and promises,
cold things that crawl through your brain
Here, in the winter, you release them,
one by one, a cold hard reversal of Noah’s Ark,
one by one hoping you can tame them,
these living lies, these winterbeasts.
One by one you light matches.
You light candles, logs in the fireplace,
the furniture if needed,
anything that will burn except perhaps,
About this poem
I was stuck this morning, when I heard one of the waitresses at the diner talk about having February weather in December. It’s true. Here in Vermont, it is brutally cold, below zero all week, they are predicting. Yesterday I woke to -7. I took that phrase, “February weather” and ran with it.
So no autobiographical mumbo-jumbo in today’s poetry. It’s just a guy playing with words. Make of them whatever you will.
The picture was taken in the attic of my church.