Another January Sunday
It’s another January Sunday.
My world is wrapped in fog.
It cradles the hills that cradle the river,
icebound and still. I cannot see
the ravens who nest in the blue
spruce behind my house.
It’s another January Sunday.
the white fog without penetrates
my brain making everything
within hazy and slow and silent.
It muffles the screams inside
my head with its insistent hush,
smothers the snick of blade that
hovers just above my wrist.
It’s another January Sunday.
I’ll survive until Monday.
The cat needs cream, the light-starved
plants need water, a dusty
book wants reading.
I tread the long hallway of winter,
feeling my way between dim days.
It’s another January Sunday.
When the fog retreats, the
neighbourhood will sparkle,
coated in silver fur that winks
and gleams in thin sunlight.
Beauty frozen by air too cold
to breathe, on a day that must
be seized.
• • •
Kendra Whitfield lives and writes on the southern edge of the northern boreal forest. When not writing, she can be found basking in sunbeams on the back deck or swimming laps at the local pool. Her poetry has been anthologized by Epistemic Lit, Beyond the Veil Press and Community Building Art Works.