"Winter on the Water"

I remember
Winter on the water
The smell of frost
On water too warm
To freeze.

Through the window
The world loses colour—
The wind and the water
Seem to be washing it
All away.

But I know better:
It is the storm,
And the storm alone
That bleaches the day to a
Pale gray.

It seems a shame, really.
I moved here with hopes
Of colour and wonder,
Only to taste the bitterness that is
Not Home.

I have now seen snow—
More than I wanted,
More than I needed.
It has not the beauty of
Balmy Home.

I can still see the wind
On the wild, wild water,
And remember the desire I had,
At that time, to know a
Colder climate.

And, the other desire:
To swim in that wild water…
Not so much to swim,
But to be in that wild water,
Helpless, quiet.

But I’ve had my fill of the
First desire: its hold is gone.
The second desire is naught.
Cold is beautiful, no doubt, but its allure
Is unconstant.

But home…ah, home…
I miss the balmy South.
What is this place, but hell?
As Dante envisioned it—frozen, full,
And bitter.

It has wounded my soul:
And I am bereft.
The bitterness has shaken my soul,
And the cold has wracked my body:
Bitter blood.

Will I be released?
Have I paid my penance?
I hope so: for memory is full,
But sometimes only a ghost:
Thin, formless.

I am hungry: these ghosts
Do not satisfy my questions.
I can smell the frost on the water,
I can smell my own waters,
Cold, counting.

I am days away, just days away…
I will return from where I came,
With hope that my blood will warm,
With hope that my soul will warm,
In homecoming.

Until then…I will remember
Winter on the water,
The smell of frost on
Water too warm to freeze…

I thought I was like that.

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12.20.02
MWL