The Cold Up Here

01/10/2020 –  Poem a Day Compilation



I don’t feel the cold anymore

I’ve grown accustomed to it.

That’s what happens when you live here

More than half your life.



I love the snow as it falls

And creates a frozen wonderland;

Drifts line the roads all around me

But I don’t need to leave.



It’s a good thing I like the solitude

Because I can spend months alone up here,

Just me on my own with my writing

And a couple of pets in tow.



The cat likes to pretend to help

By watching over me as I work

Expecting as her payment

An endless supply of pats.



The dog enjoys building snowmen,

then knocking them down again,

And gnawing on the carrot nose

Or playing fetch with its stick arms.



Sometimes I just sit at the window

And watch the world go by –

And endless parade of wildlife,

Their only care to survive.



The white-tailed deer frollick gleefully

As the spring thaw slowly edges closer

To my little wooden shack in the woods

Far enough from civilisation to forget it exists.



The cold up here never really leaves,

It just mellows into a soft puddle

At the bottom of the winding driveway

A mile or so away from the deck where I sit.



Even now, in the summer, sitting in the sun,

The wind leaves my cheeks a dusty pink

Where it’s kissed them as I stroll

Beneath the sugar maples and the birch.



The lake looks inviting right now

But I’m still not brave enough,

Even after all these years,

To swim out into its icy depths.



I’ll leave the water to the trout

And marvel at the birds flying high above me,

Their wings outstretched in splendid form,

Sailing in from their winter hideaways.



They’re not bothered by the bite of the water

As they swoop majestically out of the sky

Diving in for a well-earned feed of pike

After such an arduous journey north.



In the distance a black spruce has grown up,

Battling maples for every second of sunlight

And now home to a huge Osprey nest,

Their home after a day on the lakes.



As the sun sets, a nip returns to the air

And I think about picking up a log or two

For the fire that roared incessantly in winter

But now lays dormant most of the month.



I haven’t even opened my laptop today.

It’s sitting on my desk inside, unloved.

The next chapter can wait another day,

Up here there’s no reason to rush.



It’s only when I venture into town, I feel it.

The hustle and bustle of everyday life.

I left that world a long time ago

And return less often as the years slip by.



I don’t feel the need to head down there,

Not very often, at any rate.

The occasional trip to the doctors, maybe,

Or to pick up mail that doesn’t get delivered.



I stock up on supplies for the season.

I’m due to head in for the fall groceries

But I’ve put it off for three days,

It really should be done by now.



Whenever I think of that trip, I stop dead.

My heart beats faster and I suck the air in,

As if that my stop the world from turning

And put off the inevitable.



The town itself is pretty enough.

It’s filled with decent people, mostly.

There’re folk who are there all year round

And those that just come for the season.



I used to live in town, when I first arrived,

In a flat above the grocery store.

I’d sit at the window and people watch,

Looking for characters to fill my books.



Now I watch the wildlife do their thing.

If I’m lucky I might see a bear stroll by

But usually its just some claw marks on a tree

Or a footprint in the lakeside mud.



I’ve had enough of people these days,

They leave me colder that the arctic winds

That bite at exposed fingers and toes

In the dead of winter months.



Their stares as I drive the main street,

My beat-up truck older than their kids,

Tell me I shouldn’t be down there

And to make my business quick.



Twenty years, nearly twenty-five,

You’d think some of them might forgive me

But I will always be the outsider,

So that’s what I’ve become.



I’d much rather talk to the hulking moose

That saunters through my overgrown yard

To bathe in the lake when the summer sun

Becomes too much for its large frame.



It won’t judge me for what I’ve done.

It won’t take anyone’s side against me.

It barely acknowledges my existence

Which is just fine with me.



But I really do need to go into town soon.

Maybe in a day or two when I’m sure

All the snow has definitely melted

And the roads will be clear to drive.



What can’t I be like the skinks I see

Scuttling about between the rocks,

The flash of a red jaw or a blue tail,

As they search for snails, spiders and insects?



Then I wouldn’t have to face them at all,

Their condemning looks as if I were the one

Who ruined someone’s life for a bit of fun

Instead of being the one who was ostracised.



The joke was on them, though.

My little shack in the woods is my haven.

My writing den away from prying eyes

Where no one knows who I really am.



I’m sure they’ve all read my books.

I smile inside when I see them

Proudly displayed in the bookshop window

By owners who have no clue.



Sometimes I wish I could see their faces

When they find out who wrote that novel

Featuring the heroine from their home town

Who always manages to save the day.



The loons know because I tell them.

I dutifully read them each chapter

As I sit on the end of the dock

That juts purposefully out into the lake.



When I finish a chapter in winter,

I wrap myself up in my doona,

And hug my hot water bottle

And I relate the latest part of the tale.



They don’t care what I write,

Or if I read to them, or not.

But their haunting replies seem appropriate

As my words are carried away by the wind.



No one else knows, though.

They are too busy looking down on me

To wonder what it is I do up here

Tucked away from prying eyes.



I should have written today.

Knowing I will see him in town,

Knowing what fate waits his fictional self

Has made me more uneasy that I thought.



My heroine gets the justice I never could

And he gets his just desserts

While in real life he holds all the power

With his uniform and privilege and power.



But I find myself procrastinating,

Putting off writing this final chapter.

After all these years of wanting this

Why do I feel so monumentally hesitant?



The stars are twinkling against the velvet sky,

The fire is crackling peacefully in the corner,

And my laptop sits on the desk unopened

As it has all day, all week, long.



No matter how many times I tell myself

That this is cathartic and therapeutic,

This last book has been the hardest,

The closest to letting go I have come.



But there is no letting go of what happened.

No amount of snow filled seasons

Could freeze out reality forever,

And it is like an ice pick through my heart.



If they hadn’t believed me, I could understand.

I could have forgiven them years ago.

I could have moved on.

I could have persuaded myself it wasn’t real.



They all knew and accepted it,

Closed ranks around the town’s favourite son.

They couldn’t deny the wounds he caused

But they could sweep it under the rug.



Up here in the woods in my shack,

I still hear his footsteps on the stairs,

But those stairs are long gone from my life

As is the man who climbed up them.



Up here the trees protect me,

Their branches wrap around me all year long.

And in winter I welcome the snow fall

And the walls it builds all around.



The leaves will soon start falling,

A carpet of fiery reds and yellows,

And I will be safe with my animals

But not until this last trip to town.



Each time I go I pray I don’t see him

But he’s there waiting for me,

His presence making me silently relive

Every moment from when I said no.



The white-tailed deer know how he smelled,

The trout know every action he took,

The ospreys know the colour of his eyes

And the bears know that he smiled.



I didn’t feel the cold that night

And I haven’t felt it ever since.

The world can’t get any colder

Than when its people turn their backs.