Poem: Wintering

Even a winter-person has dreams of Madagascar.


I’d November in Madagascar if I could,
hide out the winter in India’s blazing sun,
sombrero on the sunny side of Columbian walls,
bare-toe my way along a Cancun beach
Anywhere but here, this painted lady’s arms
in winter can’t begin to hold me down

Ancient distant lands of promise, promising
beginnings that never ended, mysteries
The touch of outstretched longings left behind
for a time in tangled sweat-soaked sheets
I’d remap this portion of the world in finger-sifted sand,
to suit myself and no one else, blown over

I’ve lived the chilled and wintered life, fingers stiff
Too bone-cold to see past a smoky sun, held low
against a horizon that drives me to steaming soup
All the edges hazy, it’s time now for clarity and warmth
A dawn that jumps, not drags me from my bed

My batteries may be solar, time to be recharged
An easing back of the throttle, coasting, drenched
in deep blue waters turning green with envy
at un-clustered, undressed lying about
all afternoon to watch a spider on a wall

Ceiling fans and windows open to the breeze
of all I ever thought or hoped, the speck of someone
seen shimmering on the horizon, walks my way,
arms stretched and golden and I can wait it out,
lying there in the afternoons of endless time
Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman's
poetry collection


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