Bring on a steamy, sugared something. Dawn
Arrived and fled too soon, but gave its chill
To us. Before the Bluethroat ends her trill,
Set up the cookstove. Make some stew. Get up
And look! a misty cloak has veiled our tree.
The panes appear as frozen lakes. The lanes
Are lined with little, dinky hills of snow.
We thought of watching birds today. We bought
A pair of binocs too, but who could know
That our long-dreamt ambition would fall flat?
Now what? Absorb the day’s mundanity?
Job’s scolding us, but Winter makes us slobs.
Your frizzy hair. My rugate cheeks. Our eyes:
Half-sealed by rheum. Still, at least we could rise,
And that’s applaudable. So, don’t stay bland.
It’s only winter. We are not yet dead.
But what can sleep-done slugs like us do: shut
Those eyes for just a while, plan groceries,
Explore our phones, toggle between the floor
And roof, or dread our son’s Sax coaching fees?
Now, given such a phase, won’t one allow
More shiftlessness to chain him to the bed?
Yet things can get rip-roaring if we set
Ourselves in snuggly jumpers, fill our cups
With spiced hot toddy, and, while taking sups,
Read stanzas from some book. These will indeed
Warm our hearts’ cockles and abate our plight.
In case these don’t suffice, we’ll hide within
A thick duvet, and though things have not been
Jolly enough, we’ll spend our evening wholly
By the fireplace, glued to the TV screen,
Listening to soporific tunes of Waxwings,
And nodding off while watching Siskins’ flight.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. When he is not writing, he can be found strolling the hills surrounding his homestead. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Westward Quarterly, among others.
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