Winter is my favorite concerto of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It makes me feel…I don’t know…pain? A slow, agonizing death? Well, yes, but also, discordant, vivid life. It reminds me that in winter, nature is merely hibernating, growing strong beneath the hard, cold earth in preparation for another beautiful spring. It’s there, beneath the surface, if you can only see it, imagine it, despite the absence of color, warmth and light.

In winter, the world around me often seems peopled by shadows that haunt me. The starkness of the day time world – naked trees, grassless earth, perhaps snow-covered landscapes making the world blindingly white – invites introspection. I cannot be distracted by gentle, warm breezes, colorful flowers, trees heavy with leaves, lively with the chirping of birds. There are no children running gleefully away from chasing mothers nor dogs leaping joyfully after squirrels and rabbits. And so, I look inside and am beset by the shadows of those who have touched me, whose memory lies within me, who have helped shape the person I have become. But who only live in me, for they walk the earth no longer, but rather rest under the cold hard earth whose seeming barrenness has sent me inside. To remember.

Then there are the shadows at windows. Short, cold days lead to fewer meetings with neighbors on the street; one sees only their shadows in windows at night. You know they live, just hibernating. Perhaps we need the time away from each other as well. Perhaps the constant activity of spring, summer and fall necessitate the slow, introspective days of winter.

h e r e i n

c a l i f o r n i a

winter is not weather

it

is

a

*feeling*

instead of snow

we

have

---lightweight jackets---

‹and›

s u g g e s t i o n s

You think you know my dense caress,

My moping whine against your chest;

You think you have me understood,

My endless frozen tears and death.

You think my snow and slush and sleet

And heavy grey, and dragging feet

Betray my deepest, hidden self

Of dark depression, stained conceit.

But then you wake and look outside

The morning after I've applied

My sparkling touch; I've left the trees

Encased in joy solidified.

While the sun glares down at the earth

With harsh rays, unforgiving

I sit cross legged in front of the hearth

Holding the woollen hat I’m knitting

The fire crackles and the flames rise up

I almost forget its time for our afternoon sup!

I rush to the kitchen to check the pot of boiling stew

And am relieved to find it turning a warm golden hue

I go back to tend to the task at hand

Away from the world of pots and pans

My work is the color of sand

That lays quietly upon a desert land

Suntanned

Dotted with vegetation, scantscant

The chilly air bites at my frail arms

As I get up to retrieve a ball of crimson yarn

The sprawling cat snatches it out of my palm

Since it her only source of play and calm

As I watch her claw and bite atat her newfound toy

My eyes light up with joy

I haven’t felt this way in a whwhile

Not since Richard walked me down the aisle

But alas it was too good to last

All that is left are tearful memories of the past

Now that winter has come around once again

I must relive the remainder of the pain

Forever in my bleeding heart he shall remain

My love, Richard, we will be united once again.

each snowflake is unique

like the manifestations

of my instability

yet their frozen predictability

each year on this planet

in what the goddesses

have deemed to be one

of the seasons

is an experience of

isolation and grievances

why else do we make wishes

on the first day

of the next calendar year

we are all helpless

to stop this

pantomime

of snow and frozen

faces on the anniversay

of quarantine

winter is coming

are you ready

to face the catastrophe

of the hidden meaning

Traveling o'er the ocean was

like traveling back in time.

I couldn't speak the language,

yet got along just fine.

People were pleased to meet me,

this young American girl,

traveling on her lonesome to

see what made the world whirl.

I stayed with numerous families

who opened up their homes.

When my train fare depleted,

I could no longer roam.

I found a little family

in search of an au pair.

For room and board, I tended

their boys with tender care.

As autumn turned to winter,

the quilts were piled on high.

We'd listen to fire crackle

and the low winds that sighed.

Traveling o'er the ocean was

like traveling to ‘before’.

I found life of my forebears

in distant days of yore.

We didn’t have a luxury.

No central heat, no less!

(My clothes smelled like their wood fire!)

I loved these folks, "the best".

The thrill you give me

Makes me stand still

With your whispering words

You give my body chills

Are you here

Did you come yet

Are you tempting me

Just to get my feet wet

The way the trees shivers

And the chimneys smoke

The roads and streets await with anticipation

For your wintry strokes

The clouds clings together

But there is no rain

The windows are closed, but still, no delicate puffs against their pane

Come slowly

Come quickly

You always surprise me

Sweet heat will arise

And I'll know that you have arrived