It has been terrifically cold here in Wisconsin the last couple days. The depth of winter always makes me a little blue and listless and I recall some sad winters in the past. One such winter I wrote this poem and I sometimes remember it because it taught me there is always some warmth and hope not very far away.
In two different worlds, we are back to back.
I stare out the kitchen window
at the wide, glaring desert of white
that falls down the moraine west of the house.
I can’t remember anything but winter:
this foreign landscape
these bitter hands
all the unforeseen obstacles
hanging from wiry trees
all the uncaptured opportunities
long since flown south.
But behind me, you are smiling
under the 60 watt bulb
a child in your lap
reading a book about bees.
the cells are brimming with sweetness
the queen lays eggs by the thousands
the worker bees dance
drenched in pollen.