Winter is no Timeby Jane Yolen | ||||||||
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Winter is no time for poetry. My fingers ache; the attic where I write has ice-fogged window cartoons, pentiments of a long cold. Winter is no time for poetry. Light is middle aged here, the sun sitting at an awkward uncomfortable angle, a mere shadow of itself. Winter is no time for poetry. I count the peeling paper, crackling on the attic walls, flowers once golden, now faded, like the poet. Winter is no time for poetry. But through the iced window a bird on the wire, phones in a promise of coming spring. | ||||||||
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