Monday, 1 January 2018

The January Poet

The January Poet

I have barely moved all day.
Island House by Baye Hunter
This is January.
Full, replete, burrowed, dark.
I have sprouted a light down,
and a long snout to warm under my
new tail.

I find comfort in words like “root cellar”
and “tuber”
and blink when the sun startles the living room.
It is still and warm and could use
a few more leaves around the place.

Only short words will come to me,
as I move sluggish,
stripping the bark from mid-winter trees.
Strobing the few lights in the chemicals
that are left to me:
a low grade imagination and burgeoning hips.

I wait in the snow for angry neighbours to chase me
with brooms.

Scat, you!

But no-one notices my grubby boots
and January coat.
She’s just another writer come out of the dark woods
back into the house,
with empty pockets for words.

PD/Jan. 3/2012

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