A Winter Song
Joey Connelly
The furnace speaks up, starting from a whisper,
and I listen under blankets by fogged windows.
My fears become palpable,
head heavy on flannel pillows.
I understand why the crows cawed all summer.
The crickets were prophets,
saying exactly what I now hear
in the air pulsing through heating vents.
The world will end when it is too cold to keep trying,
when the spinning carousels of neglect finally freeze.
I try to be brave. I wear wool socks
and forced smiles.
I prepare Christmas puddings and read long novels.
Jigsaw puzzles. I choose to ignore the symbolism.
The whole world becomes a cellar of threadbare religions.
Bargain basement Buddhism, coupon clipping Catholicism.
The furnace sings a song of entropy.
With visible breath I harmonize.
Sound to honor desolation.
Higher than my stacked optimism
the snow drifts.