I heard someone say the other day that it felt like January 74th. I find January and February in Maine to be trying. I don’t ski, my cold tolerance is definitely decreasing with age, and it makes me cross to wobble around on icy surfaces. In that rather crabby vein, I offer a sour, wonderful poem by Amy Gerstler (copyright by the poet, of course).
A Severe Lack of Holiday Spirit
I dread the icy white concussion
of winter. Each snowfall demands
panic, like a kidnapper’s hand
clapped over my chapped mouth.
Ice forms everywhere, a plague
of glass. Christmas ornaments’
sickly tinkle makes my molars ache.
One pities the anemic sun
come January. Trees go skeletal.
Children born in the chilly months
are apt to stammer. People hit
the sauce in a big way all winter.
Amidst blizzards they wrestle
unsuccessfully with the dark comedy
of their lives, laughter trapped
in their frigid gizzards. Meanwhile,
the mercury just plummets,
like a migrating duck blasted
out of the sky by some hunter
in a cap with fur earflaps.