January 7, 2015

L'hiver est là


 
 
 
You know what winter is?

 

Forget that death and rebirth tinsel.

 

Winter is being able to count all the nests in a tree when the leaves are gone. That which was hidden, protected and private now bare and exposed.

 

Winter is waking up to find a maze of foot trails in the snow. You just had your meter read by BGE and you didn’t even know it. Elliptical, two-beat imprint between the house and the tree: a running squirrel. Tinier steps, rhomboid pattern: the fox from two weeks ago crossing neighboring properties at night. You walk to the pier, only to find someone was already there before you.

 

Your house is surrounded by creatures and ghosts. They live and walk around you, watch and ignore you, your oblivious self none the wiser until the snowy palimpsest presents itself.

 

Winter is acorn husks in the back yard all dug up, hollow and empty. Will you panic as you try to remember your last-resort hiding spots? How long can you live without? Are you going to be enough until spring?

 

People cross the icy water in waders at sunrise. No duck or goose is safe from the shotgun blasts.

 

On the other side of the hunt, you sleep naked among claptrapping screen doors and trash bins tumbleweeding down the street. You wake up in the middle of the night, hearing the wind howl through the thin wall that stands between your goose skin and the blizzard, snowy footsteps and ghosts.

 

You know how to walk this house in the dark. Your naked flesh is a silent glimpse in between the rooms, a twister of energy bouncing off the walls as you traverse its space. With no lights turned on, the reflection in the mirror is your own ghost self, hunkering down, building a love in pockets of stolen happiness, one barefoot snow step at a time.