Winter is no time for poetry.
My fingers ache; the attic
where I write has ice-fogged
window cartoons,
pentiments of a long cold.
Winter is no time for poetry.
Light is middle aged here,
the sun sitting at an awkward
uncomfortable angle,
a mere shadow of itself.
Winter is no time for poetry.
I count the peeling paper,
crackling on the attic walls,
flowers once golden, now
faded, like the poet.
Winter is no time for poetry.
But through the iced window
a bird on the wire,
phones in a promise
of coming spring.
About the Author: Jane Yolen is the award-wining author of over 150 books for children, adolescents, and adults. She has published fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and edited collections of folktales.
Copyright © 2004 by Jane Yolen. This poem may may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.