A Poem about December

I’ve spent years looking for a poem that will make me feel better about winter and it’s brown vacant landscapes. Ken Phillips piece does this as he bids me to look beyond what is “plainly before me.” 

Of course  it's been warmish and dry this month and I'm without a wintery picture.

Of course it’s been warmish and dry this month and I’m without a wintery picture.










A poem by Ken Phillips
There are those December mornings
the brown ones,
chilled, but not bracing
where sleep hangs on,
with torpor that cannot be penetrated
by any brew or beverage,
where dullness hangs heavy
on brain, on being, as well as on eyes

On such days
I do not see what is plainly
before me:
The hopping dance of winter birds.
The wave of a friend,
The gaze of the beloved.
Tiny buds on branches,
not dead, but engaged
in their hopeful winter work,
silent and with sure purpose.

A voice calls out to me from within,
struggling to pass through the thick grey
that shields me from consciousness:

“Wake Up!”

I hear it, if only a little,
and I struggle, too, to reach
beyond my own sluggishness,
believing, perhaps enough,
that something,
is eager to enter my day –
thief, or angel-like,
to set my heart pumping,
and to open my inward eyes
to the gift that is this particular moment
shimmering out of greyness
with purpose
and pulsing with possibility.

About Laura

When my nest emptied I moved from the big city to a little big town to tend to a ramshackle yellow house on the edge of town. These are my Yellow House Days.
This entry was posted in not my poetry, Not my writing, winter. Bookmark the permalink.

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