My maples woke as crystal chandeliers,
Dangling diamonds delicately hung,
Suspended pendants strung along glazed arms,
Winter’s prismic greeting to the dawn.
Bright sapphire jay and chickadees appeared,
Accompanied by ruby cardinal’s song,
Symmetrically arranged for morning’s rays,
Pendalogue jewels perched before the sun.
Maple’s teardrops glisten as they fall,
Leaving watery trails where they’d begun,
Nostalgic for the chandelier’s clear glow
Now feeding Spring beneath dear Winter’s snow.
Washington’s weather slunk in today with freezing drizzle. The kind that requires chipping away at the iced-over car door just to get into the driver’s seat.
For good or bad, when I stop and pay attention, I notice how the weather affects my writing. My thinking. My motivation. My poet friend laments: it’so awful out that she can’t compose.
Instead of kicking ourselves, another option is no blame. Just loving observation. Does the weather affect your internal go-meter? Does anything else?
When I have a cold, my sinuses swell into my brain and press against my IQ. I have to make tea. I walk around dragging the tail of my electric blanket’s extension cord. It tethers me to the wall. I wrap Julie’s lovingly knitted scarf around my sore throat like a hug. I invent new comfort foods. Then I write its recipe. I tell myself: I wrote.
What do you do, mindful writers?
…trapped crystalline in
my frozen mind
burrow under blankets
like my ammonite doggy transforming
air to lead if anyone tries to
drag her out
It’s okay to curl up
snug and warm.
The squirrels will still be there tomorrow