Some thoughts on winter

Poetry for the season

Little Ice Age

End of year,
Colder inside than out
Steady rain beads on unprotected skin
under a slate sky.

No jolly crowds
The only sound wheels whishing by
Splashing water onto the curb
Underlining empty hours to come.

Shoulders hunched
Hat jammed on under a fleece hood
Gloved hands shoved into pockets
Glasses an icy glaze over steamed lenses
A constant stream of mist from nose and mouth.

Ice dots the river
Grinding, crunching,
big chunks breaking up,
As the current swirls them forward.

From my perch, do I see Little Eva
Jump from floe to floe?

Lips part to call
Raucous replies bring a small smile
Only gulls,
hopping back and forth
Look at the patches of open water
Then fleeing to the lake
Where frazil forms
And a few pancakes drift toward the shore.

Alone on the jetty studying my reflection.
Jetée, perfect for my state of mind
As I contemplate the time alone
Hours, minutes, days, years of solitude
While I write companions into my life

Today’s inspiration, frost fairs, calling out of the past
Paintings, a poem
Crowds skating, playing kolf,
Sleds pulled by horses and oxen

As the rivers and lakes sleep under tons of ice
People starve, animals freeze.
Iron seeps into bones as the centuries go by.

Sharon Michalove

Along the Lake

Through rain-spattered windows
I watch the lakeshore
As the bus jounces
Each bump mirroring the white caps skimming the gray waves
Under the matching sky.

Sharon Michalove