Winter in England
by Karen Kelsay
It’s here I pause with each December, where
the snow trimmed walls of timeworn brick align
beneath the window sill, and winter’s bare
limbs bend beneath a delicate and fine
glossing of frost. It’s here I garner all
my thoughts of months gone past, beside the sheers
and yellow paisley chair. A woolen shawl,
a pearl and knit of smiles and raveled tears,
is wrapped around my shoulders. Nothing speaks
but morning’s melting icicles, and wind
that steals the breath of graying skies. The creek
is frozen into timelessness and thinned
with dying grasses, every shade of brown.
I take my stock of daisies dried and pressed,
my verses, scratched impetuously down—
time balanced here on its mid-point of rest.
