Tonight's Poet Corner: Is It Winter Yet?

Is It Winter Yet?
by Belinda Roddie

Out west, it doesn't really snow,
but the spray of the bay keeps the air
frosty enough to make white shadows
out of your breath. There's detail in
the red and gold leaves dangling like
limp hands outside the window. They
tattoo their fingerprints onto the glass;
their veins bulge outward, revealing
the road map of their fragile,
impermanent bodies.

You wear slippers with your bathrobe
and drink tea that's strong enough
for a god. I'm eager to slip into
your arms, like a bundle for you
to carry up to bed. But I'm not
swaddled - I'm swathed in abandoned
stardust, and that, unlike the chill
outside, is too hot to touch
without gloves.

Out west, if you get closer to
the mountains, the blizzards begin
in earnest, and you get lost in
the tendrils of white and gray whiskers
on an angry old man's face. He tries
to sleep, but just like you, he is shaken
by the insomnia of the season. And you
drink your tea that's strong enough
for a god. And I'm eager to slip into
your arms.