Winter Heath


Image result for winter heath landscape

When better days have ridden

Ribbons of mist under the dawn

Receding to the hollows

Where the first seeds came from

We only lose ourselves in searching

For time’s wealth backward wound

But palliate in smaller comforts

That between snow and sun are found

 

Parallel Outlet: 13


Image result for cosy winter painting

loving you is like walking in the door, warm
the snow soaks into my clothes
turning to water and
rinsing me clean

Even with the curtains shut, and no fireplace to be seen in my bachelor apartment, poem number 61 from ELLEGUYENCE gives me the sensation of looking out onto a crisp snowy landscape, frost on the glass and a fire crackling at my side.

What is the difference between that kind of coziness, and the feeling of love? Hot cocoa and kisses, flannel sheets and hugs. I have been pondering this without finding a factor that I can use to delineate those two sensations. Even though their origins may differ wildly, viscerally they feel so very similar to me, and I don’t mean this to trivialize love. Maybe the opposite.

your pillow is always the softest.

Whether it is the softest pillow I have ever held or the gentlest person I have ever known, these things jumble together to form gratitude. Snowy days are carrying away my wistfulness at another year’s leaves falling, and I’m happy to be sitting inside with my tea, re-reading Elle’s 61, which I think you should read too.

you said you never believed in luck
until you saw my chances
and cast a bet anyway.

~

Image from Pinterest.

Pine


Her nails were pine green to match her dress, and she knew that he was looking at them. She didn’t usually paint her fingernails. Even looking away, at this point, could be a provocation.

She looked away anyways. She wished that they were stranded deep in a forest in winter, snow creeping hot then wet then blisteringly cold up from her ankles.

Somehow, for him to actually lift up one of her hands – fingertips under fingertips – was the last thing she expected.

“Did you paint them just for the party?”

It was crowded, the sour haze of alcohol, and they were standing in their own little pocket by the sink. A window flung wide open, a searing January wind. That was what she needed. Her hand shot backward to hide between her skirt and the counter.

She could not do anything about the hand holding her glass, however.

 

Christmas Maiden


In white she smells of snowdrops

Or of the mistletoe’s pale berries

Then donning a cape of red and gold

She is the poinsettia and the holly

Her hair of brown, her hair of gold

Glitters with tinsel and stars of ice

Crowning her in season’s charms

Ushering cheer and fireside nights

And when she walks upon the snow

Not a trace mars white perfection

Whilst firs clad in light and colour

Reflect her gay complexion

© 2012 Elizabeth Cook