Early Winter

The river is edged with ice.    
Small colonies of slush float    
along its rippled skin.         

The grass is all white-tipped    
in the morning. It is so cold    
couples walk without speaking.         

The house smells of spoiled fruit,    
hot-house roses standing too long    
in stagnant water. I sleep         

in your bed, under my grandmother's    
comforter. It is hard to stay warm.    
Tomorrow I will make your black         

bean soup, garnished with green    
onions, sour cream, white cheese.    
Your great aunt's Roseville vase         

will hold new flowers. I'll choose    
red and white carnations, pretend    
it's spring, listen         

for your step on the path.    

Comments

[Karen]

Beautiful, Sharon...
your writing evokes all the senses. I've always read prose, but honestly not much poetry. Early Winter is incredible - I can hear the water; feel the cold, the comforter; smell the bananas (even if that's not what they were - they would be in my house!), the flowers - both the old & the crisp carnation smell, the soup on the stove (which I've visualized and almost can taste); and I'm listening for the steps on the path, too.

Thanks so much!

[Anne]

Evoked perceptions. Your words bring a picture to mind, but not a memeory... at least i don't think so: a dark velvet chair with polished wooden claw feet and a large crocheted ivory antimacassar resting at the top of the back of the chair. There's a beautiful side table holding a small crystal candy dish. The air smells vaguely of lavender.

[SaraS]

This makes me want that black bean soup!! This is the sort of poem that makes me wish I could write poetry...alas.

Sara