I cannot believe that I am admitting this to you
me who saturates herself in colours like I would wither without them
me who weeps when the birds flee to more hospitable climates
my heart breaking for the loss of their songs
but I long for winter
I long for winter like one who is pressed and overstimulated and weary longs
to indulge in rest without obligations or guilt
I long for it like sunburned skin longs for a fan blowing
across a bowl of frozen water
oh to open a frosted window
and draw frigid air deep into my lungs
to calm the hot flashes from within
to nestle underneath the worn comforter that I have made
rows upon rows of single crochet
like layers upon layers of blanketed snow
sleepy
while I sink into literary fiction
to sit at the table with my husband
right against the patio doors
immersed in the adventures of mythical board games
protected and cozy
while a storm rages on the other side of the glass
the sharp tinkling sound
of ice pellets hurtling against windows
and to wander through our home during the night
our rooms lit almost like daytime
moonlight and streetlights reflected on snow reflected on clouds
peering outside to watch bunnies
taking refuge in our skeletal raspberry canes
a landscape of winter magic made visible
this is what I long for
to be cooled
to slow things down
to dream alongside my husband and nature
and to admire the designs
of a stark and silvery wonderland
