I

  am

  pull-

  ing snow

  from my hair

  by the handful and

  patting down my gloves, into

  pockets, stomping feet serves a dual

  purpose: my feet are numb, wet, and--heavily at

  first, moderately second, lightly third packed snow

  and I am lingering at the handle as it emanates cold

   grasping it now, turning and opening, and as I take

       a deep breath and step inside my glasses become

                  fogged over completely and you laugh

                          and take them off for me and

                                    your grin radiates

                                           warmth I’ll

                                              remember

                                                 later

                                                    as

                                                     I

                                                     go.

                                                     I

                                                    am

                                                 pull-

                                              ing snow

                                          from my hair

                                    by the handful and

                          patting down my gloves, into

                 pockets, needing to stomp my feet be-

      cause they are numb, wet and heavily packed snow

   trying lightly at first, then moderately shaking my

  feet and lingering at the handle as it emanates cold

  just one second too long or I stomped too loud when

  I heard you sigh through the door and cough as

  if to say, “You may as well come in.”

  but I pretend to be someone

  else somewhere else

  turning back

  into the

  wind

  as

  I

go.

  I

  am

  pull-

  ing snow

  over my face

  by the handful and

  dropping my gloves down into

  pockets of earth and ice, needing to

  stomp my feet because they still have sensation

  but I have no feet to stomp and I am at first light

  second moderate third heavy packed into drifts and I

   am at your doorstep, I accumulate and blow into the

      wall piling higher and reaching and lingering at

                  your handle but slide off and settle

                          but you have moved to warmer

                                    climes and are not

                                         inside, I fly

                                              into the

                                                  wind

                                                   and

                                                     I

                                                     go.

                                                     I

                                                    am

                                                 pack-

                                               ed snow

                                           and my face

                                   and hair are packed

                         into pockets of earth and ice

                 and packed into pockets of your house

       this season is numbing and I am seclusion and I

   am monotony and I am discomfort even if I am masked

  by the way I catch and distort light and emanate the

  moon's brilliant glow and I am at once moderate and

  light and heavily amassed as I cling desperate

  to the handle the door the windows

  and walls and I am grasping

  your house at once

  witness my

  refusal

  to

go.

  I

  am

  pour-

  ing snow

  over your doorway

  witness my beauty and wrath

  you are inside wishing for warmer

  climes and wishing for the end of winter and

  the renewal of spring just as I wished for the same

  and you don't dare peek outside lest you remember me.

12/23/2009

Author's Note: Merry Christmas.

Posted on 12/24/2009
Copyright © 2024 Jason Wardell