Poetry Series: The Cold Stretch; At the Cusp of Equinox

By Sass Borodkin聽

 

The Cold Stretch

Winter: the slow blink

of light returning.

The lid opening

so sluggishly

we hunker into the darkness,

praying toward the thaw,

aching to tell the sun

how grateful we are

for the whiff of

returned peach blossoms

and the echo of kids giggle-jumping

through the sprinkler.

The hunker feels like a drag

despite its red-carpet rollout

for soil hydrated enough

for pumpkin pie harvests

and daffodils.

I miss the light,

but the blink gets me ready

to meet it again.

So, I鈥檒l try to be welcoming.

I鈥檒l try.

 

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At the Cusp of Equinox

 

I love the colors I can see at the door edge of winter聽

 

Spring peeking through golden corn stalks from last harvest聽

brazenly poking through thinning snow

row by defiant row

 

The blue expanse behind framing storm clouds聽

bringing that golden to glow聽

against the soft white waning blanket of winter’s end

 

I can almost smell the ripe yellow of corn to come.