It’s here I pause with each December, where
the snow-trimmed walls of timeworn brick align
beneath the windowsill and winter’s bare
limbs bend beneath a delicate and fine
glossing of frost. It’s here I garner all
my thoughts of months gone past, beside the sheers
and yellow paisley chair. A woolen shawl,
a pearl and knit of smiles and raveled tears,
is wrapped around my shoulders. Nothing speaks
but morning’s melting icicles and wind
that steals the breath of graying skies. The creek
is frozen into timelessness and thinned
with dying grasses every shade of brown.
I take my stock of daisies dried and pressed–
my verses, scratched impetuously down–
time balanced here on its mid-point of rest.
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Karen Kelsay has been published in a variety of journals including: The HyperTexts, The Flea, The Raintown Review, The New Formalist and 14 by 14 Magazine. She is the editor of Victorian Violet Press, an online poetry magazine. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee.
Wilderness Interface Zone 
You always see, Wordsworth without the mania.
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I love the idea of winter as a dormant time, a time to rest and think and take stock of life. It makes me like winter even more… and I’m trying hard to like winter now we’ve moved to souteast Idaho 🙂
Your meter and rhyme are very lovely. And I feel the sense of sorrow-mixed-with-reflection-and-quiet. Very calming.
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