I’m broken.

I thought it was because I was fragile,

like a glass ball

shattered,

weak and jagged,

scared and scarred,

ready to slice open the foot

of anyone unfortunate enough

to come walking by barefoot.

But it’s because I burned so bright

like a flaming star

exploding,

imploding into a black hole,

nuclear Armageddon,

ready to blow into pieces

anyone unfortunate enough

to venture into my blazing orbit.

As a child, my favorite season was a bright sparkling world. The clouds poured their glittering white flakes over the house, the yard, the trees, the road, and the little pond in the neighbor’s yard. Before eight in the morning, a snowman had to be erected. If mom couldn’t be persuaded to part from her red scarf, I had to use dad’s. It was threadbare from years of use and covered in little linty pills. But it would do. Sometimes mom let us have hot chocolate with breakfast. We could only have candy canes and marshmallows if it was the afternoon, however.

In winter, the world lives in slow motion. My feet did not run as fast, and the air was slow to come into my lungs. Even the bird that glided on the freezing currents did not pivot or dive as they did in the springtime. The sun slept more, and the nighttime creatures prowled about. I was never afraid. I had a house to stay in. Night held wintry treasures of its own. I’d sit with dad and my baby sister, and we’d listen to the barking coyotes and sometimes the howling wolves in the deepest month of the winter.

Dad’s birthday was in January. He always asked mom to make him a German chocolate cake for his gift. Christmas always distracted us, and too soon, dad’s birthday was upon us. He didn’t seem to mind the homemade cards written in crayon the day of his birthday or the lack of gifts. We’d go to the high school to sled, me, dad, my brother and my baby sister. Mom told us she liked to stay inside, where it was warm.

It has been years since I’ve spent the winter with my family. My dad’s tastes have changed. He no longer wants cake on his birthday. My brother has been at college for a few years, so we don’t see him often. My little sister is studying to be valedictorian; it’s hard to drag her out of the textbooks she lives in. My mom still doesn’t like the cold. Mom and dad had another kid when I was in high school. He likes to build snowmen. I see the same giddiness in his face when the snow gathers on the ground, but it isn’t the same.

That big bright sparkling world has come to be my least favorite season. The sun shirks his duties. The sky obscures the roads and traps people in their homes. The wind ices the road, with ill intent. It becomes so unbearably cold. Even the air I need burns my lungs and freezes my heart. The darkness whispers things that I hadn’t been able to hear as a child.

Where I once saw beauty, I see danger. Where once I reveled in joy, I sink deeper into darkness. Has Winter changed, or have I?

Tell me about winter Father,

Tell me about the cold kisses,

and the longing touches of the wind

The pinches on my cheeks and

the tickling on my nose

Tell me about winter Father

For there is more I want to know

How it comes and it goes

and how it snows

Tell me more!

Tell me more!

Tell me why such a cold season is such a cheery time

And why the snow swallows me up

Oh look how high!

Tell me about winter Father

I want to know more

About Mrs. Winter

And how she goes.

This feels less a color of sorrow

It feels sticky

cold

not like ice but something left in a fridge too long

When I think blue, I think the dark blue

A deep ocean of fears and unknown creatures

then remember the smiles of my friends which love it so

then I think back on blue

as a young child it was my favorite there was

I loved flowing water

floating there letting thoughts numb

then I hated it

it felt constricting, trapping, cold

too too cold

too too empty

I think blue to some words, some languages

and those I avoided so long as I hated the word in itself

"blue"

but growth comes with change

no longer my favorite nor a feeling I avoid

blue is a color you can touch and pick up

blue is cold

blue is confusing- for every shade of blue feels slightly different

blue feels like a welcoming old hug

if only id accept it

but I don't

I don't like the texture or the taste or the thought

I don't care to float freely in water or be embraced by sensations of ice

the color of my childhood- now the color of putting my flame out

It's a creeping sensation.

That starts in the dark. With the dark. Out of the dark.

It is the dark.

The darkness creeps in, day by day, until it's arrived.

Here.

All consuming.

I'm here, too.

Wallowing.

Floating.

Foggy.

Looming.

we'll have this argument all our lives

I suspect it so well of us

You'll say it's black as night

staring deeply in,

and I'll say look here

at what's in front,

what lies beneath

uncertainty,

and reigns supreme

as silver-gray . . .

Darkly, you'll insist,

more lightly,

still ...

we need look beyond.

And so, we'll settle,

once again---

for the middle ground.

02.06.2024

blue: how it looks/feels challenge @champagnepoetry

"A cloudless plain blue sky is like a flowerless garden." Terri Guillemets

One word is such a vague way of defining oneself, is it not? Still I'll admit it: I consider myself to be a 'cyanic", a person who gravitates largely in this life to the color blue. It can be any form of the color blue, but I particularly like a deep, rich velvet blue that resonates in your vision, seeming to make everything wash anew in rebirth. The word alone has a connotation of color as rich as life itself. We are allowed, after all, to define ourselves in a multitude of ways, so I'll stick with calling myself a cyanic and give due credit to the famous Bard, Shakespeare, for the possibility of doing just such a thing: "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet "

I am a hardcore, down-to-earth "cyanic", fulfilled by the deep blue violet that blooms or the vast blue skies that loom above us, constantly changing in the array of blues found in their depths. I have always gravitated to rich, vivid blues, surrounding myself with as much as possible; ceramics, crystals, pottery, walls, flowers, coverings, and art. For me, the color evokes a wide range of emotions of well-being and peace. Blue brings wonder and imagination, especially while listening to Debussy. You only need to hear the scattering of fairy like, magical music rippling across the air in Clair de Lune to see a vision of blue painted, tangible enough to reach out and touch. Then there's the cornflower blue found in Van Gogh's Starry Starry Night that brings forth a depth of feeling, taking the viewer into the recesses of Van Gogh's creativity and depression. The pale, delicate blue found in Bernini's dome housed in St. Peter's Basilica is amplified by an array of muted colors while the blue still vibrating regally to stand front and center in his architectural masterpiece.

The color blue takes me into extraordinary realms where I am most creative, comfortable, and peaceful. Going one step further, for me, cyan or blue is represented by the Archangel Michael, known for having a magnificent wingspan that reaches and fills the heavens. He is the head of all angels, a warrior of heaven, and our fiercest, constant protector.

Yes, I am defined each day by blue. It surrounds and calms me as I witness its beauty in dynamic vibrancy in; the skies, the butterflies, someone's eyes, the oceans, the flowers, the fish, the birds, and even food. It would be wondrous to fly about and over this enormous planet, emboldened by all nature that hums and beats with blue at its center. In the end, we are one with the universe - a mixture of blue truth and life - much more than we'll ever realize.

"Blue is the closest color to truth." Steven Tyler

Barren; open; still

Empty;

Heavy like the weight upon the snow covered ground;

waiting still for better days.

Winter feels

Silent; isolated; alone

Violent like the cold;

and Death will certainly collect what’s owed.

Winter is

renewal; resurrection; rebirth

Beauty like the awe new life brings;

and promise that soon will come the Spring.

©S.J.Reed

In the quiet embrace of winter's chill, a world adorned in a pristine blanket of snow, each flake a delicate masterpiece, I come alive. The air, numbingly perfect, carries the scent of pine and the promise of a silent sanctuary. Trees stand as guardians, their branches heavy with the weight of glistening crystals, sparkling under the moon's tender glow. Footprints leave a temporary mark on the once blank canvas. Cozy hearths call to me, casting warm glows on faces adorned with rosy hues, as the world outside is hushed in a serene lullaby of snowfall. Winter.