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.