Winter is not my favorite season. The best of it is a good snow when one can wax romantic; homecoming, jingle bells and all the rest. Anyway, I joined a writing group recently to see if I could get the old muse interested in conferring with me over some piece of drivel, at the very least.
In the process I was encouraged to read an old book, Writing Down the Bones, and that set me off for a bit. Need to re-read it I suppose . . . . The writing group decided they wanted to write about winter, not my favorite time of year so I rummaged through my hundreds of pages of writing and found only six or eight poems concerning winter and a couple of those were a stretch, "metaphor"ically speaking. Oh, there may be a handful of others that I didn't get to, but that's immaterial at this point.
I'm sharing the handful I read at last night's meeting.
-This first was a nostalgic longing for those who have gone away.
Both Ends of the Path
I sought the old path;
felt its hardened soil
beneath my feet.
Dear God!
A hundred groaning memories
fall, tumbling about me
like dying leaves.
I'm ten years old,
Grandma's with me,
trudging
across snow-laden hills;
hurrying into the heavy cloak
of approaching darkness
and the long night
closing in around us.
Tears fall freely now.
Deep longing envelopes my soul,
pleading for Grandma
to comfort, guide me safely home
before the darkness of this night
closes in around me.
Oh, God,
the loneliness of ancestral longing
for those who have gone
to travel other snow-laden hills,
in a quest
for the end of the path.
Icy waters beckon me.
I am nearing the end of my journey.
My steps grow faster, faster,
racing toward the light of the valley
where Grandma's laughter
rings out
somewhere
beyond the mountain path.
-Joy S. Barefoot
-Winter can be a time of crushing cold with howling winds. This next poem must have been such a time . . .
The Winds of Winter
I have felt
the winds of winter
beat upon my shoulders
until my covering shattered,
falling, in pieces,
on the ground.
A lone maiden,
I stood upon the hilltop,
strong, against the whip
of an angry wind;
lashed and beaten
until my anchoring roots
began to rip
from their moorings,
fiber by fiber.
Such are the winds of winter.
-Joy S. Barefoot
-The next poem is remembered as a view from my window when the children were small.
First Winter Wind
A mighty north wind took hold of the oak,
shaking with strength, 'til it cried.
Tears swirled in circles, touching the earth;
brown, yellow, orange and dried.
Again, blew the wind; the leaves start to dance
with the light, easy grace of a sprite;
their blushes of crimson, russet and gold
soon paled by the north wind's frostbite.
Once more blew the wind; the dancers laid still
in a white crystal coat, they did sleep.
'Though the wind coaxed and begged them perform
they laid, ashen white, in a heap.
Now, howls the wind, as it mourns all alone,
combing the barren, cold land;
restlessly searching for some sign of life
and a sprite, dancing to its command.
-Joy S. Barefoot
-Woods in Winter
I want to walk
the woods
in winter;
follow snowy paths
where glistening
shimmers
lead me
through a pale
white
winter bath.
I want to feel
the wind's
icy fingers
enscarve me
with their clasp;
taste weathered snows
of a thousand
years
with every
breathless
gasp.
-Joy S. Barefoot
-This next poem is simply a joy of being in the midst of a heavy ice storm, with all the branches clinking their icy limbs.
Ice Follies
Ice coated branches,
sounding
like silver
fairy bells,
gleaming, glistening
against the rising sun.
Branches
in a shoving match
high against the eastern blue;
a shoving match
of territorial
reclamation;
first to the east;
then to the west
like so many
tinkling goblets
toasting in graceful sweeps
and tiny, tinkling touches;
ice-coated branches
sounding like
fairy bells
gleaming
in the early morning sun.
-Joy S. Barefoot
