Carolyn Adams
A Frequent Winter Chill
I’m not from a land of snow.
Where I’m from, you’re lucky
to hit freezing twice a year.
I don’t know the great loneliness
that sets in, mid-winter,
when the outside is only
a long monotone.
I don’t know the struggle
navigating drifts,
pushing aside boughs
heavy with stones of cold.
Now, in these lovely wilderness valleys,
there’s a flurry sometimes,
and a frequent winter chill.
When snowflakes fill the woods
with soft ash, when they float
in a tremour of white wings.
Crunching on ice, glad for my boots
on a day like this, I love
the bone-shiver in the air,
the vast silences,
the lace and blades
contouring trees and underbrush.
I love long walks
in the deep alone.