Po­etry: “Hi­ber­na­tion”

When snow and ice hit your win­dow 

and you’re wrapped in a nest of blan­kets, 

All you can do is sleep. 

The out­side air, it hurts your body, 

your lungs refuse it. 

You long for na­ture. 

Won­der­ing how lit­tle birds don’t fly south sooner.  

Even with the dawn, wind pierces. 

Your lungs in­hale the ex­haust from the reg­is­ter.  

And you tell your­self, 

“You still have ten fin­gers and ten toes.  

Al­low what is, to be.” 

With that, the pa­per­back book rocks out of your grasp, you drift, 

Light­weight 

Every­thing is black, empty. 

An­other deep breath and you see your­self, 

Hug­ging the white com­forter, chest cradling your knees. 

You’re vul­ner­a­ble. 

Your brain, so ex­hausted from  

from the dis­trac­tions of 

in­putting and out­putting, 

Fi­nally has some time alone. 

Maybe it lights a lit­tle tea can­dle. 

And spills wax in the bath­tub 

It eats a meal that it cooked it­self,  

and watches car­toons, telling it­self jokes. 

Maybe it even re­minds it­self of its ten fin­gers and ten toes. 

Maybe it also looks af­ter it­self like  

a child.

One thing I do know for cer­tain is that it dreams of warmer days. 

Ones where it can sleep un­der the sun in its front lawn, 

and ride its bike through town.  

Ones where it no longer has to will your back and shoul­ders from tens­ing up. 

and your lungs taste sweet. 

But right now, we eat and sleep. 

Eat and Sleep. 

So much so, we won­der if every­thing. 

is okay. 

And so do oth­ers. 

But we keep giv­ing to every­one.  

Be­cause that’s what ful­fills us, 

what warms us when every­thing freezes. 

If all else fails,  

anger can heat us up.  

Eat and Sleep. 

Soon we will rise again.  

And the hunt­ing ground will soon be ours.