Camilla sees and hears it all--my joy, frustration, anger, hopefulness--especially now that we are housebound in the snow. I photograph her, then out windows at the squirrels and transformed yard, the lights I keep up on the fence outside the kitchen until March. In the snow, lights are muted, abstracted. Here is the poem about my tree:
Taking it down (Sonnet)
Its needles pierce my skin like angry words,
I drag the season out with numbed regret,
The brown from bottom-up intrigues my birds--
They chatter "Christmas" so I can't forget.
Since throwing it away strikes me as sad,
I prop the tree upright against the fence,
Then coil lights around, a little mad,
Illuminating gloom, as I'm intense.
What difference does the close of winter mean?
I'll plant those flowers as I always do.
Yet somehow all the times of "in between,"
Deplete the seeds, so I have none to sew.
My mood is gray and silence is a sound
That cuts the flesh, and opens up the wound.
January 29, 2010
Posted February 3, 2010