|Jul/Aug 2016 Poetry|
Photographic Artwork by Victoria Mlady
A Brief History of December
Brrr...It's not so bad, but the wind has a way of separating the jitters from the shivers, the shivers from the shakes. Sometimes, walking home late at night, in the middle of winter, with a sense that he is equally here and elsewhere, the farm boy toys with an idea. He winds one up. Its mechanized wobble cannot navigate the frozen tire treads or lead him to a warmer coat. There's nothing left but walking, a slow but steady progression under pine boughs weighted down with snow. It's easy to mistake steady progress for stillness when there's no delight in either. This is a kind of sleep. This is the body at odds with its surroundings.