Winter’s Lonely Witness
I like to be left alone to sort I begin with the domain
of real things wander through the pantry cans
and boxes long past due so many spices some
with seals still intact I move to the closet lay out
slacks and shirts and skirts in shades of pale gray to black
dark to darkest now, the linen closet I toss
old remedies reminded of the wrongs of the body
ordinary aches that surface in the cold I cross the hall
enter the office shred last year’s receipts pitch
old calendars I regard my birthday list delete
those who have died those now dead to me I approach
stacks of unfinished poems all those urgent beginnings
stalled and flatlined I turn away from the new page
that frozen mass of white space that demands a walk
through an unwilling wilderness I recall a different
landscape another winter when supper was spread
across the table and we passed the gravied beef
and passed the broccoli casserole on real plates
and talked about our day I imagine this happened
imagine everyone is still alive sustained
by winter’s shadows its faint and mournful pulse
Irene Fick of Lewes, Delaware is the author of The Wild Side of the Window (Main Street Rag)
and The Stories We Tell (Broadkill Press). Both chapbooks received first place awards from the
National Federation of Press Women. Irene’s poetry has been nominated twice for the Pushcart
prize, once for Best of the Net. Her poetry has been published in such journals as Poet Lore,
Gargoyle, The Broadkill Review and Blue Mountain Review.
