By Lydia Wylie-Kellermann
In the cold,
dark,
dreary,
loneliness
of February,
I am kept warm.
By the taste of last season’s tomatoes in my salsa
and strawberries spread over fresh baked yeast and whole wheat flour.
By the monotonous moves of my knitting needles,
and blue ink on paper writing love letters to elders.
I am kept warm.
By the bird feeder. Who could be lonely
when there is such a feast and party of such magnificent color and sound
outside my window each morning?
Good morning chickadee and nuthatch. Good morning cardinal.
I am kept warm.
By the quilt upon my bed
stitched by the hands of many women
who kept hand cut squares of my mother’s flowering dress warm
after her body had grown cold.
I am kept warm.
By the woodstove
where I sit each morning with match
and watch until
the log I’ve loved and labored with
has caught.
It dances in heat
and I linger a little too long
on bended knee
watching as if to pray.
I am kept warm.
By my children
who ask me to crawl under their covers
and hold them til the
monster that eats their toes
has crawled back under their bed.
This year has brought monsters
with viruses and fear,
distanced and masked.
Yet they have survived,
yet they have thrived.
I am kept warm.
By resting in her arms.
Back and forth we spoon
all night in a dance
we’ve done these thirteen years,
so ordinary and yet a miracle.
I am kept warm.
And then the snow begins to fall
and is caught by the moon.
I breathe in the cold air,
I am alive.
And beneath my feet deep under the soil,
a daffodil bulb shifts,
and I am kept warm.
Thank you for your gift this morning Lydia!
Love, Colleen ________________________________
This warms my heart, dear Lydia, on a sub-zero day in Vermont amid mountains of drifted snow.