The Words
A Poem by Kimberly Phinney
There are winter words
I would use:
snow– plowed under;
troughs of icy encasements;
white banks
and heavy-laden slumber.
There are only winter words—
breaking off parts in frigid snaps
and draining greens to gray.
I know them all too well
and the silence
the barren land provokes.
Oh, I know the silence.
“It is never good,” I tell myself,
when it settles in,
when the last rusty leaf falls
from its tree to kiss
the icy roots of snow,
and the writing stops again.
Then comes the prolonged winter:
a December without end.
The frigid breath comes to rest
in my bones and whispers that
the sun should set in its slant,
and the cold is welcomed in.
Oh, I know the silence.
The shivering and the pleading–
man against the wind.
The shivering, the pleading,
then the silence
once again.
But then.
The glacial peaks begin to crack and avalanche
by some deep work of God.
There’s some small warmth at hand
underneath the ice,
and the break gives way to life.
Then spring words,
then summer words,
words flowing from the Stream.
The writing words–familiar friends—
all come back to me.