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.