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Deep Cold of WinterBy M.J.Iuppa QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: First published in Poetry Storehouse, 2014. Collected into This Thirst, Kelsay Books, 2017.  Is there a chance I will get a clear look at these woods? Framed in our picture window, trees huddle close together, a tight space I’ve drawn in pen & ink, in watery blues struggling not to spoil the light snow falling like moths caught in a mason jar—the muffled coo of mourning doves roosting on silvery branches . . . I think the deep cold will seize my breath if I were to go out there and stand with my hands in my pockets & wait for the solitary moment to make sense, in the way black & white makes sense in winter, where the out-of- the-blue trill of a cardinal’s dusky notes sounds flawless— a song sung with a splash of red . . . I know the canvas of words has so many possibilities like my paintings made from something real & unpredictable as living here without a lasting outline. CommentsComments are closed.
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