I Did Not See a Radio, but a Typewriter

Because lately, I have no use for the news

for work, or even for food.

For outdoors or for walks, though I am envious of the trees and their icy coats,

each one in its own glassy skin, protective and shimmering against the light.

(The ground is too slippery to walk, why must I go out at all?)

But I am the winter bear who has risen too early from her slumber,
no longer under the spell of sleep but with a head still half-tired and tied up in dreams.

All that I'm hungry for now, are words.

I'd rather spend my days feasting on poems and playing in those summer grasses of the mind,
trying to make something of its beauty.

(Nature writes it's own poetry though and has no need of a translator)

Nonetheless, the breath of the soul calls out, it wants to anyway;
to give it's own song a name--

a voice that comes from someplace else.

So I anchor myself in wood: my antique table,
the hand-carved chest in front of the couch,

The chair in the kitchen.
the one I ask Marc to paint, to strip, to make new again.

Wanting of him to make us a bench; to make use of his hands, 

if only for the sake of beauty.

A man's offering to the world.