The river is edged with ice.
Small colonies of slush float
along its rippled skin.The grass is all white-tipped
in the morning. It is so cold
couples walk without speaking.The house smells of spoiled fruit,
hot-house roses standing too long
in stagnant water. I sleepin your bed, under my grandmother’s
comforter. It is hard to stay warm.
Tomorrow I will make your blackbean soup, garnished with green
onions, sour cream, white cheese.
Your great aunt’s Roseville vasewill hold new flowers. I’ll choose
red and white carnations, pretend
it’s spring, listenfor your step on the path.
3 responses to “Early Winter”
Beautiful, Sharon…
your writing evokes all the senses. I’ve always read prose, but honestly not much poetry. Early Winter is incredible – I can hear the water; feel the cold, the comforter; smell the bananas (even if that’s not what they were – they would be in my house!), the flowers – both the old & the crisp carnation smell, the soup on the stove (which I’ve visualized and almost can taste); and I’m listening for the steps on the path, too.
Thanks so much!
Evoked perceptions. Your words bring a picture to mind, but not a memeory… at least i don’t think so: a dark velvet chair with polished wooden claw feet and a large crocheted ivory antimacassar resting at the top of the back of the chair. There’s a beautiful side table holding a small crystal candy dish. The air smells vaguely of lavender.
This makes me want that black bean soup!! This is the sort of poem that makes me wish I could write poetry…alas.
Sara