Prelude of Reading, Sleeping, and the Digestion of the Seasons

In memory of the winter in 2011.

Prelude of Reading, Sleeping, and the Digestion of the Seasons

The summer was memorable.

Fishin’ in the river with green grass to feed.

The bait of the earth, on the edge of the hook.

We caught butterflies and poetry,

reading on the edge of the bank.

Waiting for our next bite,

I dug my bare toes into the dirt,

feeling the earth beneath my skin.

I reminisce on past advice from my father.

“What’s a man if he ain’t got no head to think with?”

Then he’s just limbs, skin, and bones, isn’t he?

When the wind whipped up and took the hat from my head,

I followed it into the river.

As shallow as the bottom floor was, I sunk in deep.

Waking mid-afternoon to a cloudy sky,

winter knocks on my door.

As I grab my snow shoes from the foyer closet,

my father walks by in his afternoon robe.

“I really don’t like winta, now. It ain’t no fun ‘less you get snowed in by uh blizzard.”

I nodded my head,

grabbed my coat,

and ran to the outdoors where snow had just encircled the entirety of my car.

As I sift through the snow,

and chip through the ice,

the blood in my veins slows under the cool air of a standstill in wintry mix.

In twenty-minute intervals, I uncover the three cars in the driveway.

Indoors, I retreat.

Hot chocolate to burn my tongue and ice to cool its thrill,

I ingest my remedy for this cold I feel beneath my bones.

In the radiance of the sun’s setting glance,

I return to where my day began.

In the warmth, under the covers, socks and all, my feet bury themselves underneath.

In search for the cool spots in the sheets,

I shift from side to side.

My mother taps on the door, to wish me sweet dreams.

I nod, as my eyes begin to close.

I hibernate when winter comes.