The January Poet

The January Poet

I have barely moved all day.

Island House by Baye Hunter
www.bayehunter.com

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