Drink hot soup tomato red
this February night.
Burn a candle flame.
Winter blood still
bathes chilled joints.
Wear wool to hug the skin,
Breathe to clear dry lungs.
We are defrosting,
departing from winter hibernation.
Spring barely has begun.
A message from 44º North, 76º West for dVerse Poet’s Pub. We are quadrilling “burn” tonight.
My hair silvers at the temples and falls out in long white strands. It was brown, then dark dark brown and now…I wonder if my hair is thinning…..my mother’s hair was always blonde….different shades of blonde…she made sure of that. And now my plumage changes. What will leave and what will stay?
In this haibun I blend a story about hair with my recent sightings of robins. Reading about these birds I discovered that some robins live five years or more if they survive their first year. I am fairly certain that the robins in my yard stayed here for the winter, perhaps feasting on the abundant juniper berries. Their signature red breasts and white plumage on throats and under tails brighten up the landscape. The above photo, from Pixabay, is an American Robin. Many thanks to Bjorn at dVerse for his Haibun Monday prompt: The beauty and the misery of grey.
When the world becomes a snow globe, it’s time to make soup. The sun is rising earlier, days are longer and everyone is talking about spring, but it’s still freezing cold.
In the fall I buy large and small pumpkins and line them up on the counter. Their brilliant orange cheers my spirits. Two days ago, in cold February, I cut up my second last pumpkin and made a huge pot of soup with ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, cumin and coriander.
I laughed yesterday when I heard a radio host say “I feel like I’m living in a snow globe”. He was confirming that snow will continue falling for the next few days. I too feel like I am living in a snow globe. I took the above photo while driving home and the image below, showing a snowman in a snow globe, is from Pixabay.
When the mercury plummets to minus double digits, I think of my hometown, the place of my first 18 years—colder than any place I have ever lived. There is one particular occasion, waiting at a bus stop, that sums up my memories of harsh cold. It’s my freezing temperature benchmark.
On a grey winter day on a downtown street I wait alone for a bus, my vision narrowed to an expanse of frozen pavement. There is no shelter from the biting wind. My cheeks feel like cardboard, my ears are numb, the air is dryer than dry, my fingers clench inside mitts, feet stomp and my mind burrows deep.