A Winter Heart In The Summer Air

I keep thinking in my mind of how I wish it was winter. It's not that I don't like summer; I rather enjoy it and always have. Something changed in me last winter that reopened my eyes. Perhaps it was simply for being the first winter away. Perhaps it was that I was so alone sometimes in the late hours of the cold, clear, unforgiving land. Many nights I had lay awake and listened to music fitting, my eyes above me in the ceiling imagining something. It was good for the soul to be in the poverties I endured last winter. They were such as I had never known before, and never to such extremes. So I have lent to you, my readers, two poems composed in that winter. Enjoy them.



Its snowing now, what can you do?
The band plays softly into me now,
I’m aware of all the things that make us change.

I do declare a holiday, from all the mess we make of us,
We come along and make a fuss;
Now but one distant dense weight to confess of us,
Believe me its not easy...
Never was, never will be.
Time is that of which we’ve no control.

I have no idea if there’s a God.
I’m so small in this big bright world,
Just think if I was some baby bird not yet bound.

So what am I suppose to look for?
Snow falls and winter slows me down so much.
I feel her touch, and when its there its only there;
When she’s gone I know I’ll miss it very much.
I know she’s not simple...
I forget things, I suppress it.
I hope that I don’t let her down.

Let me tell you, I am weary.
I can’t see the days ahead so easy.
I wish I knew whom I would hurt so I could say I’m sorry now.

It’s not like I want things to be hard;
Drifting in and out of open arms.
Letting love take hold a little then letting go.
Believe me, I don’t want to...
I can’t help it, it hurts me too.
Don’t think that I don’t feel you when you’re there.

I sit here and hide so much of this;
Through my work, drifts, dreams, and kiss.
I’m afraid to say what I feel and think you’ll all just run away.

Still I’ll go on sad and lonesome;
If its what I’ll have to do.
Streets and cities stretch before me with open arms.
I could cry for all that coming...
Its so sad to know you’re running
Like me running from the future that I make my own.

Its snowing now, what can I do?
The band plays sadly into me now,
I’m afraid of all the things that make us change.

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Winter setting, cold and clear.
Into the great gray skies I disappear.
Longing for the big change,
Longing for that big love to take me away.
Or something to rest my head and heart;
They are in need so much to rest.

O hopeless woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

My head falls downward as I ponder…
The thickness of the air makes everything unclear.
Some change is due in this wreck of a life,
Some sort of reckoning need take avow;
Yet still here and now do I find
That I do not find myself anymore resolved.

O hopeless woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

Will the face of spring, like a red robin sing
All of my aches and ail away?
To this day I await, and so carefully concentrate,
And yet the clarity I seek is repeatedly unseen.
I go before the fires and I seek a new perspective.
To change my life among these things
Is but my only solid directive.

O hopeless woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

To this and these great longings do I guess;
That of myself, and of my workings,
I’ve yet to give my very best.
Since I’ve left out on my own
I’ve come to realize how very far
Away into the years it will be
Until I finally feel at home.
The sadness dissipates my virtues,
And brings me down some depths unwanted,
And yet what mysteries are still to come
Forever press me on and on,
Even if my heart gives in and all my breath is gone.

O hopeful woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

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I'll admit, I have been a bit distant on this blog since I have moved back. I had a ritual back home. I would get off of work, and the whole town would be sleeping, and everything was empty and I felt like the streets were wet with rain only because I was walking them, or the snow was crunching beneath my feet only because they fell upon it. Then I would go into my little coffee shop, with my midnight key, and sit down, tired and drained, and all this wonderful stuff would come pouring out of me. I would feel it, too. Now its different. I don't feel it now. I feel numb and unchanged. I feel everything I did before only now with the consciousness to know its upon me. When I was living here before I knew no better. Now it seems different. A change is soon totake place, I'm sure, but it is hard to wait. I feel as if I am always waiting.

It's quite funny, really. I actually lay in my bed at night, and if I think for a minute, I imagine that I am back in that terrible house I lived inside when I was up north, and that terrible room, and the coldness and the smallness and my clothes strung about and my mind everywhere but sleep. I hear the cars go by, and i feel the cool behind my head where the pillow blocked the winter window. I feel the sleep coming. I feel, too, the flutter of sickness in my heart when I recollect that time. I remember smoking cigarettes to stall my sleeping. I remember begging my heavy heart and my heavy mind to shut theirselves away so I could sleep forever. Sleep, at one time, was my only comfort. To not be awake and facing my life. To dream, and the dreams were vivid, and the mind was thankful.

It is quite silly that that is what I want to recall when I lay my head down at night. I remember that one year away and the town that sired it better than the years I have spent growing and rooting myself in my current place. Perhaps one day, and even sooner than later, I will return. I'm sure it will never be the same as it was, though. No, probably not ever.

-C.A. Dominick