Winter's Room

Trees At The Edge Of The Tundra
January 10, 2010
Tragic Salmon
January 10, 2010

Stillness prevails upon us.

We are not moving,

these pillars of flesh.

Fingertips cold and gray

holding up the silence and the calm.

A restorative hibernation.

Heartbeats slowing step-wise,

anxious thoughts stilled

as we heed the “hush, hush, hush”

of the gracious old woman.

Her white hair coarse and clean

sweeps across our sunken faces

smelling of pine needles crushed

in the warm, glad palm of a child.

Ghosting lightly through the room,

one by one she comes to kiss us

in the corners of our heavy eyes,

as if we are to her as fragile

as new born babies.

Lips ice cold like a January moon,

breath like chimney smoke,

sharp and sweet;

possessing our senses with the familiarity

of ten thousand years,

she puts us all at ease

as we sit in Winter’s room.