Scribbles Challenge: InThe Bleak Mid-Winter

I look at the blanketed ground in all of the white snow and wish that I could articulate what I see in words here. If I were Emily Dickinson, I would speak of the hues of shadows cast off of the pure and undriven snow. If I were Robert Frost, I would describe the trees seemingly waving to the invisible Deity who created the frozen water and made it so clingy to the branches of those trees while they continue to wave.

If I were Lord Byron, I would put into writing a poem of romaniticism and share the moment of how I was moved when I thought of all that winter encompasses.  The psuedo death of all things under the pile of snow, the way we feel sluggish and tired as the sun does its best to move further away, and how we still dare to hope for spring.

I look at the mid-winter and smile as I think of Walt Whitman and Thoreau... as trancendalists see more than cold and snow blowing and shadows lengthening.   If I were them, I would write concerning the way nature holds its own and alllows for this time of vacancy and deadening quietness while it takes a rest too.  

I then do what I can here to take what I feel I can and manipulate a piece as I try to 'paint' you a portrait here:

In the Bleak Mid-Winter

Mourning Doves roost, Squirrels still wait with me here
As we sit out the bleak Mid-Winter and anticipate Spring's appearing. 

These Shadows are oppressing in the spirit of dying and death near
Yet, I appreciate what is hidden is just a hibernation as life remains endearing.

Which should it be? The weak and fainting who leave with the birds flying south?
Or the ones who bears the colder winds and dreams loftier dreams searing?

As we stay and wait out the Bleak Mid-Winter, we show signs of hope
 There are church bells ringing that we are hearing.

A light shines in the window and it helps to bring us home
No longer are we lost and tired and adrift without seeing the clearing.

We are definitely on the back side of this Bleak Mid Winter
Pushing our noses onto the window glass peering.

Waiting and waiting for the crocus, tulips and dandilions
To make their way as the snow melts as metophorically, a tearing.  

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Comments

  1. nihilist1888

    Well done.

    January 01, 2010
  2. VictoriaWV

    Thanks so much!

    January 01, 2010
  3. Maldoror

    Your allusions to our beloved acients brought Thomas Hardy’s The Darkling Thrush to mind when I read your poem, Vicki. The narrator in Hardy’s poem was encouraged by a bird singing in "full-throated evenson of joy illimited" in spite of the sombering, desolate, and dreary setting he/she was grappling with. In other words, if birds can find joy in the most dreadful of times, why can’t we? Isn’t it funny how nature seems to innately know when the tides will change, when the snow will melt, or when the buds will bloom? I wish we all had that same connection and realization in spite of the not-so-pleasant appearances that face us throughout this thing we call life. For me, your poem made that realization vivid.

    February 14, 2010