A.W. Books & Poetry

Ensconced in cotton sheets

On this blessed day,

I set Tchaikovsky on with

Pops and hums from the record grain.

Staring into the winter yonder,

Through the open window slats,

Begging Jack Frost to come and play.

As the record spins round,

It summons the tree spirits to dance:

They put on their icy pearls and tailcoats of Spanish Moss,

Curtsy to the Jays and extend their bows

Their laughter embroidered in the whistle of their leaves,

Their shadows on the shutters and the swept hardwood,

Tell tales of conversations only divinely understood

It would be a fable to say I didn’t listen so,

And dream of dancing with them in the December cold.

~Annalise