i wake to an iron sky; without a sliver of sun to lighten the density of my mind. i look down toward the pond and find it frozen too; while sounds from the road rise up through the bare trees, leaving me tense, as if house guests or repairmen or deliveries or burglars are heading up my driveway this very moment. the woodstove burns well on a day like today, but i sit at the table with my second cup of tea, unable to kindle a flame inside. i feel every bit as hard as the earth, until i look out and see the snow falling, and i surrender once again to the sweet return of its gentle rhythm–the gift of winter–an old woman’s life-giving tears.
Frost makes frozen confection of the lawn
while ice forms– too soon–upon the pond
with angled etchings of broken twigs,
mirroring the season to come…
The dock is slippery when I cross
so I proceed with care
as if at a viewing,
of Summer past.
Just as I step down upon the rock
that leads back to the road,
I am tapped on the shoulder
by a hanging branch
Kelly Salasin, Late Autumn 2009