Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Winter is Calling


The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton





Winter is calling; 
it calls my name and number repeatedly,
although I won't answer, will not succumb 
to the temptation to see what it wants from me. 
I don't like the cold, haven't since I was a child,
before injuries caused me to detest its inevitable coming 
when I least expect its arrival, even though the calendar 
screams to be aware of season's passing. 

It's like a conscious form of amnesia, 
of wanting to forget how bright white looks, untouched.

I do enjoy the unpacking of sweaters, 
lavender-scented for 9 months, a gestation of fragrance 
waiting to be borne, the bold and comforting smells 
of a well-built fire, of homemade stew simmering on the stove;
these things are not available to me in summer; 
crispy crunching sounds dwell outside
when I am curled inside, quiet and warm.

It keeps howling for me to answer, the insistent wretch.
I won't, I swear I won't. There will be no surrendering here.
My bones won't allow its presence near - they moan and mutter,
cursing its very existence, its dubious necessities.

Winter redials my extension without reprieve;
it only gains access to my voice mail 
and leaves no message for me to return,
only a dull, blank near-silence; 
I can hear chill winds swirl their tightening spirals 
in the background, leaves perishing alone in the lane.

I am sitting softly on my nest, keeping chrysalis eggs warm,
waiting for butterflies to unfurl their wings 
as spring opens the door to this haven, this sanctuary.
I have nascent buds to attend to. I do not have patience 
or time enough for the vagaries of winter, its incessant demands.

There are no angels laying in the snow, 
only arm-swept, icy hollows without promise. 
I do not need to see my frosted breath 
to feel my ribs heave, to feel my heart swell.