December 23, 2014
This isn't what you expected, two days past the solemn entrance of winter.
Already, you'd gone to the upstairs closet to retrieve your cache of sweaters.
Already, you'd double-checked the garage for snow-scrapers and driveway salt.
Already, you'd dived under your own skin, preparing for the long hibernation.
And yet, this morning's thermostat startles with its high numbers, and the air
greeting you when the dog whines to be let out signals just how unseasonable
the season is, how what you'd armed yourself against has not so much as
raised its fists. So here you are, demobilized, defenseless, suddenly as porous
as the backyard stunning you with new growth. Nothing is impossible, even
grass in December, even a calendar's temperate rebellion, even you.