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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Nostalgia

I thought it was about time I posted something, so here is a poem I wrote that was published in “Hearing Voices,” an anthology of poetry released by Bareback Press.

When we were young

we scraped our knees

and it felt good.

We looked to the street

lamps like golden lanterns

to light our way home,

as luminaries with promises

of warm blankets

and sweet delights,

and for that, we knew

when the day had ended,

when our breath finally

caught up with us,

for we were certainly

more inclined to hold

warm hands and

turn over our beds

while our hair clung

to sheets of perfumed lilac,

the last trace of warm weather,

and covering our eyes to

hide from the harvest moon,

we laughed ourselves

to sleep through thin walls

of in-jokes and outcomes.

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

In Which I Talk To A Drunk Old Man

I held on to the poll tightly as the streetcar screeched along its tracks, and the bustle of China Town rushed by the windows.

An old man sat directly in front of where I was standing, and in a mumble that released the scent of cheap whiskey, cleared his throat.

“A seat my dear?” he said.

“No thank you,” I said.

I really did not want to sit, nor did I think this old man would do well staggering, trying to maneuver himself between seats and staring eyes.

“I can even get off two stops ahead of mine, so you can sit, if you’re more comfortable with that,” the old man mumbled between his liquor soaked beard.

“No thank you, but I really appreciate the offer,” I said.

I rang the bell just as the streetcar was pulling up to my stop, and the old man smiled.

“Have a good day my dear.”

“Same to you,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding my head.

I hopped off the streetcar and as I waited at the cross walk, wondered if the old man had a home.

He had blue eyes.

T. DM