Poem: "Displaced December"

Displaced December

The birds pick seeds

from the feeder

faster than I can fill it.

The trees have lost

their leaves—rich autumn

berries eaten,

but the spirits of spring

still haunt, stubborn

Southern winds still speak.

In late morning, they curl

fingers around bare arms,

taunt with whispers that slip

between grass-teeth, unnatural

green. The heated breath

consumes me, a flash without fire.

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In light of all the traditional winter weather we're experiencing this 2009-2010 season, I thought I'd take you back to Winter 2001. I distinctly remember feeling very discombobulated while filling up the bird feeders on a December morning. I wore an old pair of clam diggers, a short-sleeved t-shirt, and flip flops, and it was winter in the Mid-Atlantic.