Meeting Winter


The sky is playing dead, wrapping itself in a white shroud called winter. The ground has bundled itself in a sweater of fleecy fluffiness, content to hide a season away. And I…I try not to pack my optimism away with my summer clothes, not to let the bright sky in my eyes grey away. There is something hopeless in the very fibre of winter. It is a desert – desolate.

And yet, many have found beauty in the desert, haven’t they? I see in my mind a beaming Israeli woman, joy alive in her voice as she declared the stony, treeless vista before me beautiful. Was it beautiful? I willed it to be that day, and still…so many beige rocks, so little color. But there! I stooped down. There was a single, tiny, radiant purple blossom.

And so, I wish to look still for the wonder here, while my heart is tired, my future clouded and my surroundings cold and color-drained. There will be flowers somewhere in this little desert, won’t there? I’ll stoop to see them – the bright bits of hope when life does not feel so alive.



Next is a mystery, gift-wrapped in black.

A million ways to tear the paper,
A million options to emerge
Sparkling, somber, shadows or rainbows –
I do not know, and though I decide
I do not know what I am choosing.

I stop, I wait, unsure. Expectant.

It will unwrap, someway someday –
A slow self-unfolding less frightening
But no more holding sure promise.
Or I could rip, quickly dash to future –
Oh! If only I could be sure it was safe.

Next puzzles me. Troubles me.

And yet, I love it’s certainty,
Surety that something will unfold –
Beautiful life in some vague shape
Like shimmery cloth draped, uncut
Lifted from shreds of black paper.

Next is a dare. It longs to be surprised.