Dry Winter

Lara, this winter has been bone
dry with winds that could freeze
flesh. I wander alone
through my townhouse apartment, ill at ease,
an unwelcome guest. Outside, my stone

patio has been stripped shockingly bare
of its plush, green summer upholstery. Today
there is in every barren branch death's dull stare
gnawing like piranhas at the heart. No snow to allay
my anxiety, and even the courtyard juncos are unaware

of all this! They peck and peck all afternoon
at the brick patio. For what? Do they expect to find
Montezuma's treasure? Perhaps a secret passage to June?
Poor dumb, brown birds with no benefactor to mind
them. Everyone here leaves for Miami, Boulder, the moon

for winter break. And I, too; last year,
when I fled to Boston to escape the thought
of you during Christmas. I breathed the clear,
clean salt-air of the mid-Atlantic and bought
worn Levi's in Harvard Square thrift shops. Dear

Lara, the ice sculptures on New Year's Eve
in the Public Gardens harkened to the ice carvings
at your catered Christmas parties I never wanted to leave.
I tossed honey-roasted peanuts to hearty squirrels. A starving
man begged me for a quarter with eyes I almost couldn't believe,

so frightened and surreal. Even the squirrels couldn't relate
to something that wild; they're tame enough to qualify
as house pets. This winter, I remain in State
College. Memories keep me on edge, exposed, unnerved. Mollify
and numb me, belated snow, my gentle opiate!

February, 1992
Background art created by Brandi Gabrielle Hubiak