Solstice
Perhaps you could tell the light to stay like this.
They claim winter is too harsh but I find
its stripping of creature comforts to be soft
and soothing. Cold hands shock skin into
submissive defense. A dry, swollen throat
screams for silence.
Maybe I won’t wait until February to die.
Maybe an eclipse will take me.
They beg me to be fire again but I want
to be packed snow. I am an iceberg
dreading the thaw.
Do I ask for help or let myself
succumb to death’s grip?
Am I a true blue lunatic inhaling
an enemy that has so long
aided and abetted me?
I am a well-loved liar.
When I am gone my truth
will be the worst ghost.
Thistle Thoughts 
Superb poem Jennifer. Hits hard.
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Thanks, Dominic
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This poem is cold, it is hard, it is sharp, it hurts and it promises worse to some. I am a winter lover, but this winter so bleak I don’t recognise it. Where does it come from?
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I feel ya. I adore winter, but I need it to let go. It’s lasting a bit too long here in Northern Michigan. It’s been a rough couple years for me. I’m ready for the sun to peek out.
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“My truth will be the worst ghost.”
And…
“They beg me to be fire again but I want
to be packed snow. I am an iceberg
dreading the thaw.”
“Packed snow” is such incredible imagery! This is a gut-punch of a poem!
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Thank you, Tre 🩵
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You’re very much welcome, Jenn!
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“I am an iceberg dreading the thaw.”
I hear you.
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🩵🩵
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