L’Hiver de la tristesse

perhaps it is the way that life itself seems to disappear

I am a summertime poet;
I cannot wax lyrical about the bare branches
or frosty earth.

Perhaps it is the fact that the blood,
so warm as it rushes through my core
turns oh so frigid by the time it reaches my fingertips.

Or perhaps it is the way that life itself seems to disappear–
to go into a slumber.
How all that is lush and thriving fails to experience the season of brown and white;
it misses the blinding light reflected off the snowy ground–
the only exception being the ever-luscious evergreen shades of pine and fir.

Or perhaps it is the way my hands crack
from the inside dry air
and then my voice cracks
as I try to speak my thoughts
and then my ribs crack
from bearing the pressure of this seasonal sadness
I hold inside me.

My summer self will one day return–
the self that can write about the trees, the dirt,
the self that holds fiery magic in her hands and feet,
the self that exhales vibrant color onto the page,
the self that heals her own limbs, lungs, and bones
through gentle care and patience.

I hope you’ll still be here to see her in all her glory.

Photo by Dimitry Anikin from Pexels


A few months ago, I was having a conversation with the wonderful Alisha J. Steele about this exact poem. This conversation took place during the winter season while I was first beginning to write this piece, and while we were discussing it, I made the prediction that it wouldn’t be finished and ready to post until spring. That prediction turned out to be absolutely accurate, which just further proves the accuracy of the poem itself. I find it so much harder to find beauty in the cold and dark days, but I know it’s there. I just need to keep looking.

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