A Remembrance of Winter

The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.

Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.

I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.

I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.

T. DM

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Indirect

This piece is written a little differently from my usual banter. I suppose I am trying something on for a while.

I missed you today

especially

when I could hear the wind

whipping wildly outside my window

where you would hear the wind

against the ocean swells

where you would be kissed

by the spray and mist

and serenaded by gentle noise

when I listen to folk

and banjos

and fiddlers

like Oliver

I think of

Echo

Alpha

Sierra

Tango.

I miss you whenever

I read lush

Prose. You always spoke with

Soothing eloquence. Your words were

Butter and chocolate, so rich

In verbose you were

Where I was not.

In speech I fumbled always

In script I was a little less dizzy

You were certainly

Poised in both.

T.DM

A Window With A View

Do I look upon a wintry night?

From a window with a view?

From a frosty ledge with chattering teeth,

All snuggled up in wool, and wear?

Or do I look upon a wintry night

From a rooftop high in the city’s core?

Leaning against a chimney with sniffles

Of ice, dripping from my frosty nose?

Surely I am bound to see more stars

With the sky as my canvasing frame

rather than if I were looking through layers

of glass and window pane,

for what is a perfect night

behind a wall?

Nothing but vicarious meandering

And wishful thinking,

No frosty breaths or rosy cheeks

To conjure the season’s spirits,

What a shame to let the

frost dissipate in that way.

 

T. DM

The TLC on Sherbourne and Nowhere

The True Love Café stood out. Though I had never been inside, it seemed to capture my attention. It was not particularly attractive on the outside, painted a deep shade of purple, with a giant heart scaling the front of its building. The inside, which I could only gather from looking through the windows, was just the same. Unattractive under dim lights (and probably more so amidst bright lights), chairs and tables could be seen in the presence of tall plants, sad looking palm leaves and house shrubbery. Not as appealing to the eye as one would think or hope for a place with “love” in its name. Only the outlines of figures could be seen, like shadows blurred in the background. A man behind a counter, a few people spread among eight or so tables, moving slowly, making their time last in beats. It seemed quiet to me, as though anyone on the inside could be sheltered from the city sounds, from the noises of streetcars rolling along the tracks, people trudging down sidewalks, bikes, cars, trucks, horns honking, dogs barking, hollering for apologies and yelling for the sake of yelling. It just seemed as though time stood still here, and that it stood quietly with a grin of contentment. I had never seen anyone enter the café, nor had I ever seen anyone exit. Yet whenever I passed by there were always people inside, perhaps just a coincidence of timing, or perhaps not. Though I admired the pace that seemed to be present among them, the folks inside always seemed quite unwell from where I stood. Why were they able to be so still, so present in their moment? Were they not flooded with the commotion on the outside? How could they not see or hear the masses that passed them by beyond the walls of the café? What content they must have. T. DM

Selfish

Does it feel like punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

and withering

till the early morning?

though the dawn singes them closed

and adheres them to one another

you still put up a front

with seething, gloating

cornerstones of whatever you expect

to come around,

really, it should always feel like

punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

or when you submit them to shut out

the day like you have always done

 

how can you be so impossible?

 

T. DM

 

Walk With Me

May I take your hand for a moment please?

and walk with you by the bay?

I have come undone in this world of late

I am weary and need to pray.

words will not comfort this somnolent mind,

and sympathy will not do,

I’ve outdone this world a long time ago

so please, let me walk by you.

May I take your hand for a moment please?

and laugh with you by the bay?

the stresses of time have made me so old,

I’ve forgotten how to play.

Show me the world in a radiant glow,

in naturalistic stride,

show me the world you intended for us,

your marveling jewel, your pride.

So take my hand, for a moment please,

and walk with me till dawn,

stay till the sweet smell of dew fills the air,

and the crescent moon has gone.