It's hard not to feel winter like this, brittle in my hands, silent
— the northern air runs through my thinning hair.
It speaks of things I don't understand.
If I could sing right now, it would sound like the thirty thousand nearly-frozen raindrops
(still resilient, reluctant)
pitter-pattering not quite in sync with the piano strings that throttle my fingertips
cutting into them
grooves in each hammer. This is the symphony of the winter.
Not as much a symphony as a whimpering melody,
Autumn leaves us in cold abandon, and I sit hunched
ticking off seconds on the ancient calendar, but where is the end?
There is no fire, no warmth that slowly spreads to your numbed feet,
no storm as they promised, only that same silent
A fist on the window.
Handprints on the foggy pane.
Outside, steady drips.
And the glass is a prison
And I cannot hear
The winter solstice is more than just a tilt of the earth.
Perhaps the Mayans did know.