January wakes me earlier than any other season. I lie awake staring at the cylinder block wall and I count the divots in its stark, glossy surface. I avoid movement. The cold face of my tile floor waits to make contact with the bareness of my skin. I am not ready to face this winter.
I wasn't made for silver cities. I wasn't made for cold. It's bitter and the earth loses it's charm. I go without warm embraces, and the soothing of backs and bellies and rosy cheeks.
When the south collects its gold and emerald,
When the screen door locks itself up like
A secret,
I am reminded of why I wasn't meant for anything north of sugarplums on Mam's front porch. As sterling as he was...he couldn't keep me warm.
No comments:
Post a Comment