“Antisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer.” ~ Plutarch, Moralia

by Giuseppe Balla (via Yama Bato)

I think that I am still in January for some reason . . .

With thanks to Dragonfly’s Poetry and Prolixity, from which I stole both the header quote and the poem.

January

This must be the month when someone decided
to make months; to count sunsets and full moons and only give it
so much time.  And though Janus looks both ways, this January

is intent only on winter’s face.  It cups and kisses it
on the forehead, on the eyelashes.  Why would winter
ever want to leave, if all that attention kept up.

I pass a half-built church on my walk every morning
and every morning I’m filled with envy thinking of the dreams
the people building it must have.  My dreams are shoeboxes

filled with bones from my feet.  When I wake it’s with a mouthful
of mother-may-I’s and the taunting of another day,
daring me to take a step as it pulls the walls up even higher.

No, it doesn’t look both ways, it makes me do that.
This house is a maze of those bare walls, perfect
for showing home movies on.  And I am the projector.

~ Susan Goyette

 

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