winter poem

white string lights,

heavy beer with mulled spices,

big furs--an apparition in the South,

crisp air with leaves below that are

only just turning into fire-like reminders

of how monotonously hot Florida was,

a week ago.

crusty bread that won’t swallow,

cheap red wine, dark in color,

heavy in body and becoming drunk

on purity, finding balance with both

together.

words on a page find their way in a hymn,

struggles rest in small vices and faith.

luminaries illuminate.

there is

connectivity.

fire.

rosemary and cloves

invigorate and preserve--

it’s all religious and transformative.

i’m beginning to think i know who i am by the seasons.