Archive 03/19/10 - (2)

   

Tea

                                                                  

Back in my cabin not quite ten minutes,

After traipsing, an hour, through the boys'-camp woods,

And now shed of boots, parka, long johns, two sets of gloves

 

(My fingers still frozen to the hollows of their bones,

Definitely too stiff to pick up my Bic pen,

With which to impressionistically record the dusk I just witnessed),

 

I set about filling a cooking pot with water to heat,

Hoping that a steaming-hot cup or three of tea

Might release the outdoors' thirty degrees trapped inside me.

 

But maybe my persistent frigidity is just as well.

After all, how can I possibly scribble a palette of syllables

With which to word-paint the beauty of the reddening sunset,

 

The protean, stratified clouds, whose gray-blue underbellies

Were tinged with deep-breathing rose brush strokes,

As the sun first slipped behind the trees, in the lake's western bay,

 

The skyscape taking on the bleeding hues of The Scream,

Day's remaining blue draining into night's vault,

Illumined by the muted glow of the moon's thin crescent of light?

 

In the jubilant solitude of this cozy, warm cabin,

I now sip tea, wait for it to circulate through my shivering veins,

And reflect on how, just yesterday afternoon,

 

I was walking without a jacket, wearing a T-shirt, sweating,

Navigating the village streets, mystified by the climatic dislocation,

And how comforting it is, tonight, to feel so cold again.

 

 

 

                                               

 

03/19/10 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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