When This Hand Writes: A Winter Piece

This creative writing piece will conclude my poetry series, although it in itself is not a poem.  It is, however, the most dear to my heart of any of them...

W I N T E R S  O F  L O N G  A G O

I remember spending mornings by a window, huddled over a vent.  Upon a stair I’d sit with outstretched arms and socks as hot as logs.  The ground outside was covered in white and so were the towering pines.  I recall admiring the color green that shown through them and the contrast thereof.

Our home was special as my father had also spent formidable years there.  It was as if, long before my arrival, this quaint, little resting place had been designed especially for me.  And so there I’d sit, gazing into winter’s grand display of timeless beauty.  It was all so perfect that I find it difficult to recount a flaw… unless, I suppose, that we were usually off to school moments later.  But with humor aside, it was there at the window that I'd been befriended by Captivation, and there we'd join together.

 When the blizzards blew in, flurrying with whistles like they do, our land really did become a wonderland.  And such feelings of enchantment would arise as I peered, curiously, into what seemed like new territory to explore.  Out there, anything could happen!  There was no telling what adventures awaited your discovery.

There was sledding to be had, beauties to be rescued, and igloos to be built.  There were lands to traverse, snowballs to gather, and fierce icicles to fight.  It was snowfalls great invitation into a scene of the most wonderful kind – a world filled with mystery, danger, and passion.

But as you can imagine, not all my time was spent in dreams there at the vent.  You could say that’s where they were formed, though, and then longed for.  It was a magical time for a boy like me to be alive.  And to this day, I still find myself visiting that window through a longing that thrills my soul.

For there I was with the cold just beyond and my very own flame below, enjoying what would one day be a young boy’s winter of long ago.

<Poetry (e.)

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