During the long, cold Illinois winter, I often find myself counting the days until spring and bracing myself to endure whatever Jack Frost throws our way in the meantime. Unfortunately, that means that I sometimes fail to appreciate—or sometimes even notice—the exquisite gifts winter offers to us: its quietness, its darkness, and its gentle nudges toward reflection and contemplation. May you enjoy all of these to their fullest before they’re interrupted by the bright colors and happy noises of spring.
by Judith Chalmer
Nighttime. It’s quiet.
You’re starting to shut down—
a yawn, an empty cup.
carried to the sink. Nothing
complex—just a little need
for air. Anyway,
you’re out the door.
Did I say February?
It’s taken some time
to bundle up. The little park
is white under the lamp—
no one lingers, nor do you.
You walk, you turn home
Breath, a still cloud.
No matter. A few months
and you’ll hear some things
moving. You’ll smell
the greening. You have this
for now—the winter
wood and its great
absorbent heart,
the young beech,
its dead leaves tiger bright.
The glitter above, the softness
below. Now you’ve come
to it. You reach down
in your pocket, step up
to your door. Here
are your care. Slip off
your coat and be received.
From the anthology, The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal (Storey Publishing, 2023)
