I was not made for this weather. Snowbirds, they will go south for the winter — but me, I will be the one who moves north in the summer — I will go as far as climate change pushes me — some far off crag off the coast of Nova Scotia please. . .
Tonight, a little January poem — because my brain is melting.
Without the cold – what would we have to talk about?
Where would our small talk go?
If it were always fifty, or sixty-two,
how would we start our conversations?
“Gosh, it’s another mild one out there today”.
“Yah? Heard it’s going to be even milder tomorrow”.
What would we Tweet pictures of in the morning?
How boring is the digital thermometer that reads
And how could we even begin to appreciate
the breath of spring,
if we hadn’t watched our own breath
freeze as we trudged out to work in the am?
Winter, this cold, is necessary-
Feel it in my bones.
Bones, that ache a little in the morning,
remind me of my age.
This kind of cold forces you to huddle inside.
You must build fires,
heat your house,
make your own light.
You must cook soup in this weather,
you must huddle your hands around
your morning coffee, a little tighter.
For – what would we dream of,
if not for winter.
Would we crave beaches
and bathing suit straps pushed askew?
Would we want for the luxury
of walking outside without a jacket?
We can not love the warmth,
can not bask in the sun,
if we do not suffer the bleak