Hard Beauty

Winter is beautiful in the way only Winter can be. It stands in defiance of what we expect beauty to be. It is not warm, welcoming, or enticing. It is not tactile in the way other season are. It does not invite us to touch, and when we do, we are met with cold, brittle sensations.

Not like Spring with joy bursting from every branch, shooting right out of the ground.

Not Summer, with juicy fruit, rich carpets of grass, cool shade from nurturing trees.

Not like Autumn, with wild parties of color, and leaves that dance across our path, inviting us to share in one last festival before the silence of the coming season.

Winter  is severe, stark, and breathtaking. Beauty few can grasp, the few who do not sleep through the season in front of TV’s and computers, burrowed in their homes and offices.

It is there for those who dare to reach out and touch the fiery ice, who will allow themselves to be clothed in snow, who will hear the crunch of ice and snow, dead leaves and twigs as they walk in the woods, who hear sounds beyond the silence.

It is a hard beauty, and one that does not care if you join in or not. It is proud and unrelenting. Its beauty lies in the very force of life. Winter holds the seed for all the seasons to come and needs nothing to embellish its power.

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THE READING

She hummed and sang in the car

Rising bars of melody

That warmed her throat,

And filled her diaphragm with breath.

She parked the car,

Still singing Amazing Grace,

But softly now, concentrating

On enunciation.

There were other cars in the lot,

Other performers,

Early for practice.

Inside, they walked around

The stage, papers in hand,

Speaking, singing quietly,

Rehearsing away the butterflies

And tremors.

As the hour neared, she searched

Each new face,

Each stranger settling into a chair,

Chatting, eager for entertainment.

She fretted over last minute changes,

Worried that her words

Would not fall from her mouth

In sequence.

Wondered if her poems

Were too dark,

Too metaphorical.

Were the images clear?

Would the audience

See and hear

The message she needed

So desperately to convey?

Then she stepped up,

Lights shone in her eyes,

Voices hushed,

For one long, frozen moment

She stood alone

In the silence.

She lifted her eyes

Saw beyond the light,

And spoke eloquently,

Projected and enunciated,

Seeing the world

She’d committed to paper

Laid out for strangers.

Afterward, warm praise

Made the fear a little smaller,

A little softer.

On the drive home

She sang Amazing Grace.

Carefully, carefully,

Enunciating.

ONE LAST TIME

Hold me in the dark,

Not talking.

Breathe against my hair.

When you’re asleep

I’ll go,

And take this memory.

Save it,

Hidden,

In a velvet place

Where only I can find it.

LITTLE WAYS

Those waking moments

In the darkness

Of the morning

Do you still reach for me?

When you’re walking in a crowd

Do you look, without seeing

For my hair?

When you unwrap

An ice cream sandwich

Do you want to share it,

Bite for bite?

Do you remember

The little ways

We loved each other?

Are they still small

Or have they grown

To fill the empty place

Where I used to be?

LONGING

There is a place in the bed

Where the blanket never wrinkles,

Or shifts.

It’s on the side where I don’t sleep,

Where the lamp

Doesn’t cast its glow

While I’m reading.

Even during the darkest

Hours of unconsciousness,

When my dreams are real,

My hands never push the

Pillow askew, or yank

The sheet from the corner.

When I wake in the morning

To crisp birdsong,

And sunlight,

bending over the windowsill,

I see that smooth,

Still place,

Where you slept,

And loved me.