The Transcendental in January

by normal

          “Winter midnight
          My voice does not
          Sound like my own.”
                               — Otsuji

Snow to ice
January is The Month of Cripples.
It all breaks down.
The roof is lame
The pipes lame
Snow tires bald
Feet in boots numb
Legs ache.

One dozen wild turkeys slide & bob
Beneath the suet cage
Where mad squirrels feast.
The plowman comes & goes
Bills arrive like stink-eyed cossacks
Night with the cold soul
Of a black jewel
Night of bitter stars
Comes & stays.

Bones muscles
Revolt against us
Between the scattered snowclouds
The moonlight frozen
Upon a cemetery of seeds
Blackbirds huddle
January is The Month of Forever.

The jack rabbit
The white tailed deer
The pileated woodpecker
Noble, fleeting & quite ridiculous
Spot checks ones grip on sanity.
Thoreau said
“There can be no black melancholy
To him who lives in the midst
Of nature & has his senses still”

& Thoreau said
“Deal with brute nature.  Be cold
& hungry & weary”

& Thoreau said
“You must love the crust of the
Earth on which you dwell more than
The sweet crust of any bread or cake”

& I say
“January is The Month of The
Dark Hearted Comedian.”