Mother Winter

Winter begins to tuck me in at the end of November

like a mother who knows her child

is over tired and needs

rest

She wraps me with a cozy blanket

of crisp fallen leaves

and dims all the light.

The wind wooshes a white noise anthem

and everything fades into

the soft

gray

quiet.

Life keeps knocking at the window

interrupting my slumber

like a neighbor that never remembers

to buy enough

sugar

I grumble and groan

longing to simply nestle into hibernation

with the bears

and dream of what I may emerge as in spring

like a butterfly cracking out of it's cocoon.

I become impatient.

The soft

gray

quiet

now feels hard

black

and loud

the waxing winter storms thunder

boasting with glory

celebrating the predictions of rodents.

Winter's hands are no longer gentle,

no longer stroking my hair like a mother.

She is vicious and wild in her temperament

wrestling me to stay within all her shades

of imperial blue.

I defiantly shrug off her blanket

and sit in front of a window

drenched with golden sun

and embrace fully that life-giving warmth.

My soul calms

the earth cracks open

making space for daffodils, tulips, and crocus

my long gone companions of morning return

singing songs upon maple branches

and Winter departs

weeping with melting tears

like a mother watching her grown child

leave the nest.

forlorn.

for she will never see the flowers

her nurturing

cultivated