Wisconsin Winter

Written from the perspective of a women spending a year in Wisconsin while her husband finishes graduate school
June 23, 2006

Snow falls as I stare out the window
of my small Danish cottage,
on a street of fellow renters,
fellow transients,
fellow wives and their wayfaring grad student husbands,
my eyes passive, transparent, receiving but not welcoming,
receiving the calm vision
of patches of snow that emerge from the asphalt,
stolid trees accepting their chilly fate,
a fire hydrant,
the blur of red cars, white cars, blue cars,
quickly passed and out of focus.

The room is filled with winter air,
the aroma of reheated pasta, chicken,
the steam of a steamy cup,
a stiff carpet, scratching my itchy feet,
a half-filled bookshelf,
The Iliad, notebooks,
forgotten knick-knacks from previous tenants,
too weird to be used,
too maybe valuable to be thrown away
without that subconscious sting
of trashing something someone maybe loved

I notice how pale this light makes me look,
as I look for Aloe Vera
for my finger
which I burned
swirling coffee to keep it warm,
as I find a Band-Aid
and return to waiting for my husband to return.

The heater is expensive
I sit in the unpleasant winter air,
the outside air inside,
in the living room,
wrapped in an old blue blanket,
holding an old book,

of a Russian mystic
who speaks of the way of negation
through darkness to light,
through pain to joy,
through separation to unity,
the way of loss,
the way of rejection,
the way of confusion,

a real lover of God, she,
a real wife,
a sweet companion,
an international lover,
an interlunar, interstellar, intergalactic lover,
wrapped in old papyrus,
wrapped in the arms of old gods.

I wait,
wrapped in old blankets
that still smell like So. Cal.,
Elizabeth at daycare, Michael at the library,
a wife at home,
a home away from home
Wisconsin,
where the four seasons play out,
the sun shines, the leaves die,
the flowers bloom, and the snow falls.


Glory to God alone.