December Solitude

Snowed-in Winter in the Woods

Three days now since the storm
sealed me in like a love letter
in an envelope of white silence.
The phone lines are down,
internet’s dead, and I’m learning
what it means to be truly alone
with my thoughts and this view
of pine trees wearing wedding dresses.

I’ve read all the emergency candles
down to stubs, watched shadows
dance on walls like former lovers,
eaten my way through cans of soup
that taste like childhood sick days.
The woodstove breathes orange light
into the room, and I pretend
it’s keeping me company.

Last night, I heard wolves
or maybe just the wind
howling its hunger hymns,
and I howled back because
who’s going to know? I’m writing
poems on frozen windowpanes,
watching my breath ghost each word
before the cold erases them.

This morning, deer picked their way
through snow deep as philosophy,
leaving poems in their tracks
that read like Sanskrit
or tomorrow’s promises.
I’m running out of coffee
but rich in metaphors
for this particular silence.

Maybe they’ll find me by spring,
gone native and talking to trees,
having learned the secret language
of snowflakes and chickadees,
finally understanding why hermits
choose solitude like a favorite shirt,
worn soft with wisdom
and smelling of pine.