Winter is here.

Despite the warmer temperatures during the day, I feel it. My feet feel it on chilled hardwood each morning. The gray skyline boasts of dwindling sunlight while the air teases my taste buds, hinting at snow symptoms without actually releasing any moisture save rain.

Plus the fact that my cold-natured self can’t handle the temps in the mornings OR evenings, so I layer up with my puffy Mountain Hardwear jacket, even if the promised high is in the 50s or 60s.

There are things I welcome about winter: oversized sweaters textured with corduroy pants. Thick wool socks to skate around our house. Snuggling on the couch with the hubby. Hearty stews and soups to crumble in crackers. Crackling fires (or the memory of them until Eric and I live in a home with a fireplace). Cinnamon-scented candles. { Except for the candle with the wick that drifted off to the side last night, overheating the glass and burning a blister into my finger. } Frost-filmed grass. 

Winter makes me want to write poetry. Actually, the transition into any new season brings on this desire. I haven’t written anything since completing my honors thesis a year and a half ago, so until I am disciplined enough to put pencil to paper, here is my poem on winter from my thesis collection.

TO WINTER

Come like a cat on silent paws.
Come like a sneak attack.

Come first only at night.
Come for the fallen leaves.

Come through my window –
Come creeping through unplastered crevice.

Come with sour, self-centered eyes.
Come bite my toes through threadbare wool.

Come rub your neck against my ankles.
Come shed a chill I can’t brush off.