Bare branches reach out like fingers
frost-spangled, hoar-laden,
grasping fruitlessly for their neighbors.
Still matte river, grey-cat grey
reflectionless, sulking in the noon gloom.
Icy air seeps
Through door-cracks and coats and
knitted stitches.
I wish I were a mushroom,
bobbing in an iron pot
Or a salamander, not
slimy-slick clammy cold
but sparking hissing roaring
in garnet-glowing embers.
Instead I am a crocus, feckless flower,
buried deep, grumbling in the soil,
awaiting winter-ending warmth.

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Tamara Holloway

Tamara Holloway

Teacher, writer, knitter, pun-hater. I would be a professional smartass if I could, but since the government is loath to support the arts, I have to do my smartassing as a freelancer. I have a Ph.D. in English from the University of Oregon – if you want to know about Tennyson, the Duke of Wellington, and Queen Victoria, I’m your gal. I enjoy educating young(ish) minds and correcting their grammar, and occasionally I write stuff.

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  • Sara Quinn

    “Icy air seeps
    ceaselessly” …brilliant.

  • Suzy Garza Higley

    I read this for the second time…and again, on this cold grey day, it is SO how I’m feeling. Lovely poem. ……I NEED THE SUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!