Regal Winter waits
Wrapped in mink and rabbit
His holiday harlots on his arm.
October is his messenger.
Fleet of foot and shell game slick
He paints the leaves
And dulls the grass.
We look up in wonder and never notice
The hardening of Summer’s rich soil.
But Winter knows us well
And while we sleep away our
He rides the night wind.
Some morning in November
He will arrive
Reclaiming his kingdom,
Tossing snow pennies as prelude
To the blinding white blizzards
That freeze our bodies
And shiver our souls.
Poetry, and now the Prose….The wordy images and then the explanations. The artistic gesture, paint or music, followed by the critique, the analysis, ordinarily done by someone else.
I am playing a different game, with simpler rules.
For me, Winter has always been foreboding; I don’t like feeling cold. I don’t like slipping in the snow. I don’t like being subject to it, forced to adjust my movements of the day and night to ensure some kind of safety. I don’t mind wearing gloves but not with snow in them. I like scarves, but not when I have to breathe through them.
But King Winter doesn’t care about what I like or don’t. My complaints are not acknowledged. I suspect they are met with some amusement, perhaps a sideways glance to some other king I’ve never heard of, a smirk, and then a smile of deep satisfaction.
October tells us he is on the way. Every year October plays the same kind of weather game…a bit of sun and warmth, a sudden chill, and then the falling temperature at night. October distracts us with the damn leaves…so incredibly beautiful. How odd is it that en route to their fall, they show such a rich carelessness in their fantastic color.
And then November comes, horse and carriage or Rolls Royce…both in one, he comes, with Winter laughing itself into our lives.