Fortune favors the bold
but it’s hard not to shiver
when you’re so icy.
As a kid in the south,
it’s always been more likely to rain
than to snow.
The 1001 variables must weave into one another
like dancers looking for partners
or future lovers catching each other at perfect moment
for the air to crystallize between their gazes
and cool off the heat that separates love from lust,
dissolving like dust from diamonds –
the dashing we do changes everything.
The weather outside is frightful,
and the rest, as they say, is history.
And there’s a lot of that
in the wreath on my door
the photos on my shelves
and the person I used to share both with.
The storm isn’t so scary
from in front of the fire –
I admit: though I no longer hang your stocking,
and through sips of my grandmother’s recipe eggnog
I often forget you, there are still nights
where I wish you’d fall into my arms
like a 73” dream-catcher and lay your head down.
Tell me say me cher
I’ll be gone till November. . .
Leaving in some places and just arriving others,
your very essence is a matter of perspective
and they call your beauty debatable.
You remind me of a dawn or dusk
in the arctic circle: all good things
begin and end sooner or later
and most of all it depends
on where you’re watching the sun go down.
I hold a north star in my bloodline.
I always wander, never get lost
and never snowblind
but I keep finding myself back where I began.
Maybe I’m a supernova
distant from society, waiting to collapse
wondering why it hasn’t happened yet.
All the gravity of the city
trying to bring us together
only serves to break us apart.
This is what dead things do.
If I ever meet an ice road trucker
or talk to my dad again
I’ll let them know
it’s nothing personal.
If this is what the end of the world feels like,
I welcome it. With the cackling crackle of embers
on Christmas Eve
and the wind whipping the world,
causing the trees to bend and kiss one another
under the mistletoe they’ve grown in the 100 years
they have been planted here shows me:
now is the gift we call the present.
If I could have one wish for the world
for my loved ones and for myself,
they’d all be the same:
that we learn we are all more similar
than we are separate.
Every single flake is unique
yet they manage to stick together
love the simple things like snow days
and hot cocoa,
And since all that’s left of the storm is silence
let me say:
We are so different.
yet exactly the same.