Old Bone
“…and doesn’t winter add to the poetry of a house?”
-Gaston Bachelard
No.
Not again this winter, nope.
This winter, when I open the back door of the house, I will open a portal. I will step off the patio into a new realm. When I pick up a handful of snow, I will have a mound of language. When I put it in my mouth, I will speak the language. See how the old leaf holds snow just so. Observe how the cursive of foot and tailprints narrate a story of stop and go.
It grants me my brumal bed. Cool couch, snow often described as blankets. A fallen log, my hibernal counter where I place cup and saucer. Walnut husks full of shadows. My subnivean thoughts stirring amongst the snow fleas. I will walk the old bone like a familiar room, adjust the curtains of briar. I will gently place the needle on the ice until I hear that one muffled note.
You know the note.
This winter, the back door won’t swing open just for the dogs or to catch a few snowflakes on my fingertips. No, this year, the yard will not be cordoned off by frost locks or lattices of ice. I will resume relishing in the real estate. Tour the garden of grays. Shake off the pelt of snow. My body will follow me for the rounds. Snow is but a measurement of time and frequency just like summer’s trumpet vine. I will arrange snowflakes into a poem to read to you. You will watch my voice carry off into the sky without me.
