Each year in February,
sometimes in December,
the trees are infected
with parasitic icicles,
the sky is painted
a weatherproofed grey;
and it is clear that
winter has won.
the cold will never leave, and
the snow will never melt, and
I will never
crawl out from
under my blanket.
sure, in past years
the plants started to bud,
the ice loosened its stranglehold,
and winter eventually ended;
but in those years
it was just practicing.
so, I lay under the covers
and watch the clock go from
on-time to running late—
jealous
of the hibernating
hedgehogs and black bears,
who never deal with
slush in their shoes,
and who never worry,
when they lay down in Fall,
that no Spring is coming
for them to wake up to.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 6.
Noam Lazarus lives with his wife in Brooklyn, New York. He writes about nature, spirituality, and the human experience. He has previously been published in Altar Journal and the YU Journal of the Arts.
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